Classic Poem

W HEN first its native springs are free ,
The River hastens to the Sea;
Nor groves nor meads obstruct his way,
Nor Beauty can his wings delay.

When Flora's Nymphs enchant his view,
The River says, " I'm not for you; "
Caress'd in vain, eludes their charms,
And runs into the Nereid's arms.

The heart that pants for thee, its prize,
Though passing beauties catch the eyes,
Will soon from the usurpers flee,
Nor dwell, before it's lost in thee .