Classic Poem

THE EYELID .

Soft, velvet lid, that shades the living spring
Whence flows the stream of sensibility,—
Where meek-eyed loves in gentle ambush lie,
And graces flutter round on glittering wing!
Why o'er that sparkling fount thy curtain fling?
Why hide the lustre of that ebon eye,
Where Sylphs, on filmy pinions, hover nigh,
And Fairies trip around in frolic ring?
Like morning dew-drops on a bed of roses,
Serenely shines my loved Maria's tear,
When on that orb of light the drop reposes,
Or slowly steals along the sable bier,
And as her strain of sorrow sweetly closes,
There seems an angel breathing in my ear.