Classic Poem

Ye pow'rs of harmony, whose gentle aid
Could once the finest sense of joy excite,
Where now is all your vital influence fled!
Where vanish'd ev'ry elegant delight!

Me better fits in unfrequented wastes,
To sooth each tender sentiment of woe,
Where, in sad concert sigh the wintry blasts,
And dying streams in plaintive numbers flow.

Or, lonely wand'ring o'er the dewy plain,
By pensive C YNTHIA'S melancholy light,
I'll fly from music's ineffectual strain,
Attentive to the wailing bird of night.

To me how tasteless ev'ry scene of joy,
The vacant heart by happy impulse feels!
While mine, which thoughts of genuine grief employ,
From chearful crowds, to drear retirement steals.

There, hapless coward! in the doubtful strife
My fainting pow'rs each active function leave;
I droop beneath the dull fatigue of life,
And wish the peaceful refuge of the grave.

Impatient wish! shall suff'rers of an hour,
With impious voice ungratefully complain,
Forgetful that the gracious hand of pow'r,
With happy ages pays the transient pain!