Classic Poem

There gres two Olives, closest of the grove,
With roots intwin'd, and branches interwove;
Alike their leaves, but not alike they smil'd
With sister-fruits; one fertile, one was wild.
Nor here the sun's meridian rays had pow'r,
Nor wind sharp-piercing, nor the rusing show'r;
The verdant Arch so close its texture kept:
Beneath this covert, great Ulysses crept.
Of gather'd leaves an ample bed he made,
(Thick strown by tempest thro' the bow'ry shade)
Where three at least might winter's cold defy,
Tho' Boreas rag'd along th' inclement sky.
This store, with joy the patient Heroe found,
And sunk amidst 'em heap'd the leaves around.
As some ppor peasant, fated to reside
Remote from neighbours, in a forest wide,
Studious to save what human wants require,
In embers heap'd, preserves the seeds of fire:
Hid in dry foliage thus Ulysses lyes,
'Till Pallas pour'd soft slumbers on his eyes;
And golden dreams (the gift of sweet repose)
Lull'd all his cares, and banish'd all his woes.