Classic Poem

1.

When at morn, the Muleteer
With early call announces day,
Sorrowing that early call I hear,
Which scares the visions of delight away
For dear to me the silent hour
When sleep exerts its wizard power,
And busy fancy, then let free,
Borne on the wings of Hope, my Edith, flies to thee.

2.

When the slant sunbeams crest
The mountain's shadowy breast;
When on the upland slope
Shines the green myrtle wet with morning dew,
And lovely as the youthful dreams of Hope,
The dim-seen landscape opens on the view,
I gaze around, with raptured eyes,
On Nature's charms, where no illusion lies,
And drop the joy and memory mingled tear,
And sigh to think that Edith is not here.

3.

At the cool hour of even,
When all is calm and still,
And o'er the western hill
A richer radiance robes the mellow'd heaven,
Absorb'd in darkness thence,
When slowly fades in night
The dim, decaying light,
Like the fair day-dreams of Benevolence;
Fatigued, and sad, and slow
Along my lonely way I go,
And muse upon the distant day,
And sigh, remembering Edith far away.

4.

When late arriving at our inn of rest,
Whose roof, exposed to many a winter's sky,
Half shelters from the wind the shivering guest;
By the lamp's melancholy gloom,
I see the miserable room,
And musing on the evils that arise
From disproportion'd inequalities,
Pray that my lot may be
Neither with Riches, nor with Poverty,
But in that happy mean,
Which for the soul is best,
And with contentment blest,
In some secluded glen
To dwell with Peace and Edith far from men.