Classic Poem

By this flow'ry meadow walking,
To this prattling echo talking,
As along the stream I pass,
Gazing on my floating face;
Lo! the ruffling winds arise,
To snatch the prospect from my eyes;
The mimic form their fury braves,
And proudly triumphs o'er the waves;
Yet, tho' with ev'ry wave 'tis tost,
The reflection is not lost.
Virtue wages such a strife,
In this turbulent stream of life;
Rack'd with passions, tost with fears,
Vex'd with jealousies and cares:
But a good unspotted soul,
Tho' subject, yet knows no control
Whilst it turns on Virtue's pole.
But lo! the clouds obscure the sun,
Swift shadows o'er the waters run!
Trembling too, my shadow flies,
And by its very likeness dies.