Classic Poem

I.

Whether I rove through myrtle bowers;
Or wander through some forest drear,
Or pluck the rose; the queen of flowers;
Still, still I find the rising tear.
Though smiles adorn the festive board,
And wit runs high, and social glee,
E'en there hath Fate, unkind, reserv'd
The mournful thought and tear for me.

II.

My harp, o'er which so oft I've hung,
And wak'd the song to beauty dear,
O'er all its chords I've cypress flung, —
Cypress bedew'd with many a tear.
For why should tones of joy be heard,
Since Fate where'er I roam I see,
Unkindly still, still hath reserv'd
The mournful thought and tear for me.