Classic Poem

Whoe'er thou art, whose soul-enchanting song
— Steals on the sullen ear of pensive woe;
To whom the sounds of melody belong,
— Sounds, that can more than human bliss bestow;

Like the wak'd God of day, whose rays pervade
— The spangled veil of night, and fling their fires
O'er the cold bosom of the mdash'rald glade,
— While bath'd in tears, the virgin orb retires.

Thy glowing verse illumes my path of care,
— And warms each torpid fibre of my heart,
And tho' my Muse exults thy smiles to share,
— She feels the force of thy superior art;
Yet, shall she proudly own her timid lays,
The cherish'd darlings of thy envied Praise.

Whoe'er thou art, whose soul-enchanting song
— Steals on the sullen ear of pensive woe;
To whom the sounds of melody belong,
— Sounds, that can more than human bliss bestow;

Like the wak'd God of day, whose rays pervade
— The spangled veil of night, and fling their fires
O'er the cold bosom of the mdash'rald glade,
— While bath'd in tears, the virgin orb retires.

Thy glowing verse illumes my path of care,
— And warms each torpid fibre of my heart,
And tho' my Muse exults thy smiles to share,
— She feels the force of thy superior art;
Yet, shall she proudly own her timid lays,
The cherish'd darlings of thy envied Praise.