Classic Poem

I.

Stern, solemn, grand, far up the dark blue heaven,
Thou old grey cliff, thou heav'st thine awful form!
On the wide waste of years a beacon given,
Lonely and bare, and scarred by time and storm;
Hard at thy base, where all day shadows sleep,
Spreads the wide grotto, overarching high;
Adown its mossy sides the cold tears weep,
And in its lap the crystal waters lie,
In sweet repose, as if there ventured nigh
This still retreat, no rude disturbing power;
No sound to pain the ear, no sight the eye;
Peace was not more profound in Eden's bower;
Far down the depths the pebbly slope is seen,
Then azure shades unpierced by vision keen.

II.

'Tis such a spot as poets oft have sung,
Or fancy pictured in her wildest dream;
A spot the which while yet the world was young,
Had peopled been with Naiads, and the stream,
Along whose murmuring course sweet odors breathe
From beds of fragrant thyme and roses wild,
Had been the haunt of Fays, that came to wreathe
Their flowery garlands when the moon-beams smiled;
Now gushing forth through portals all unseen,
And bubbling upward to the light of day,
It dashes onward the rough rocks between,
With sparkling foam, — then sweeps its winding way
Down the long steep, — then its rash speed restrains,
And bears fresh beauty to the blooming plains.

III.

Petrarca's Fountain! — Yes, thou bear'st his name;
A name that distant ages shall rehearse;
A name that soareth not alone to fame,
Married to Laura's in immortal verse!
Oft came he musing to the cooling shade,
When scorched the summer's sun with noontide ray;
At twilight thither oft his footsteps strayed,
To while with thee the pensive hour away:
Now — seated thoughtful by thy rocky side,
A soft kind influence steals through all his soul;
Bright, airy visions now before him glide;
Now — mark the tears of tenderness that roll!
Fixed is his gaze — but the winged soul is free;
He thinks on Laura — though he looks on THEE !