Classic Poem

Tell me, Love, when I rove o'er some far distant plain,
— Shall I cherish the passion that dwells in my breast?
Or will Absence subdue the keen rigours of pain,
— And the swift wing of Time bring the balsam of rest?

Shall the image of him I was born to adore ,
— Inshrin'd in my bosom my idol still prove?
Or seduced by caprice shall fine feeling no more,
— With the incense of Truth gem the altar of Love?

When I view the deep tint of the dew-dropping Rose,
— Where the bee sits enamour'd its nectar to sip;
Then, ah say, will not memory fondly disclose
— The softer vermilion that glow'd on his lip?

Will the Sun when he rolls in his chariot of fire,
— So dazzle my mind with the glare of his rays,
That my senses one moment shall cease to admire
— The more perfect refulgence that beam'd in his lays?

When the shadows of twilight steal over the plain,
— And the Nightingale pours its lorn plaint in the grove;
Ah! will not the fondness that thrills thro' the strain,
— Then recall to my mind his dear accents of Love!

When I gaze on the Stars that bespangle the sky,
— Ah! will not their mildness some pity inspire;
Like the soul-touching softness that beam'd in his eye,
— When the tear of Regret chill'd the flame of Desire?

Then spare, thou dear Urchin, thou soother of pain,
— Oh! spare the dear Picture engrav'd on my heart;
As a record of Love let it ever remain;
— My bosom thy tablet — thy pencil a Dart.

Tell me, Love, when I rove o'er some far distant plain,
— Shall I cherish the passion that dwells in my breast?
Or will Absence subdue the keen rigours of pain,
— And the swift wing of Time bring the balsam of rest?

Shall the image of him I was born to adore ,
— Inshrin'd in my bosom my idol still prove?
Or seduced by caprice shall fine feeling no more,
— With the incense of Truth gem the altar of Love?

When I view the deep tint of the dew-dropping Rose,
— Where the bee sits enamour'd its nectar to sip;
Then, ah say, will not memory fondly disclose
— The softer vermilion that glow'd on his lip?

Will the Sun when he rolls in his chariot of fire,
— So dazzle my mind with the glare of his rays,
That my senses one moment shall cease to admire
— The more perfect refulgence that beam'd in his lays?

When the shadows of twilight steal over the plain,
— And the Nightingale pours its lorn plaint in the grove;
Ah! will not the fondness that thrills thro' the strain,
— Then recall to my mind his dear accents of Love!

When I gaze on the Stars that bespangle the sky,
— Ah! will not their mildness some pity inspire;
Like the soul-touching softness that beam'd in his eye,
— When the tear of Regret chill'd the flame of Desire?

Then spare, thou dear Urchin, thou soother of pain,
— Oh! spare the dear Picture engrav'd on my heart;
As a record of Love let it ever remain;
— My bosom thy tablet — thy pencil a Dart.