Classic Poem

LAURA.

WHY wanders my friend in this grove?
Why seeks she the deepening gloom?
Why pensive from me does she rove,
To weep o'er the mouldering tomb?

EMELIA.

Can Laura forget that this day
Brings fresh to my woe-pierced mind,
The hour that tore me away;
From Lucius the constant and kind?
Oh! he was the pride of the plain,
And Sol in his annual round,
Ne'er shone on a worthier swain,
Nor can such a shepherd be found.
The Genii of Nature and Art,
To finish the plan they design'd,
Set virtue to furnish his heart,
And science to polish his mind.
The traces of love and of truth,
Appear'd in his aspect serene,
The wisdom of age, the graces of youth,
Enliven'd and soften'd his mien.
His judgment was piercing and strong,
His manners were easy and gay,
The Dryads would flock in a throng,
Whene'er he began a soft lay.
Whenever the shepherds would jar,
They left it to him to decide,
His word to their strife was a bar;
By what he would say they'd abide.
His taste so sublime and so pure,
And always with nature combin'd,
That Ceres his fields would manure,
And execute what he design'd.
His sheep could in beauty compare,
To any on Arcadian plains;
The birds to his groves would repair,
And warble the sweetest of strains.
His gardens, so trim and so neat,
The flowers spontaneously grew,
The vi'let would spring at his feet,
Array'd in her beautiful blue.
His Hamlet, ah! there was the scene,
Which breaks my fond heart but to name,
And there I was bless'd with this swain;
But now it is past like a dream.
My face from the sun he would screen,
No air but the zephyr must blow,
At eve when I walk'd on the green,
With his hand he would brush off the dew.
Alas! what can talents avail?
Can virtue or piety save?
If love o'er grim death could prevail,
He had not sunk down in the grave.
O! how could you tell me that time
Would certainly bring me relief;
When each heavy moment that flies,
But adds to the weight of my grief!
To find the soft med'cine for pain
I traverse the garden around;
I search thro' the woods and the plain,
But no such a plant's to be found.
How every gay prospect is chang'd!
How gloomy all nature appears!
The grove where together we rang'd,
Beholds me a prey to my tears.

LAURA.

Can tears e'er recall the dear saint,
For whom thus unceasing you mourn,
The seraph may hear your complaint,
But ah, he would never return!
By rivers celestial and pure,
He drinks at the spring of delight;
And joys that are endless and sure,
Flow still from the fountain of light.

EMELIA.

I know, that his spirit releas'd
From these lower regions of pain,
Of pleasures immortal must taste,
Nor here would I wish him again.
But still I must drop the soft tear,
And visit thus daily his tomb,
Ye muses attend to my prayer,

And bring of your sweetest perfume;
To strew o'er this hallowed ground,
I've planted the myrtle and yew,
The willows stand weeping around,
'Tis all that my fond love can do.

This tribute of love and of verse
His mem'ry shall constantly have,
Till carried along on a hearse,
I'm laid by his side in the grave.
Then pity herself shall be there,
And lay the green turf on my breast,
Shall shed a few drops on the pair,
And leave them to peacefully rest.