Classic Poem

Spare thy vain triumph, thou prepar'd to steer
From Albion's blooming meadows far away,
For doubly doleful at the close of day
Shall the deep-moaning Curfew strike thy ear,
Length'ning its sullen murmurs in the wind;
And while her gleaming cliffs retire from view,
Your ling'ring eyes shall look a sad adieu,
And each forsaken friend shall haunt your mind,
Each joy you witness'd in her peaceful vales,
Where Freedom gladdens ev'ry conscious swain;
And though you tread Ausonia's genial plain,
Where myrtles breathe their spirit in the gales,
Yet shall fond Mem'ry, 'mid the splendid scene,
To these fresh pastures turn, and thickets green.