Classic Poem

You call me sad! — you err — I'm gay
Who hath yet mark'd my spirits sink
Who hath beheld by night or day
My lip, voice, eye, or visage shrink?

My looks? ... Joy wrinkles just like care
Go trace the marks that Pleasure brings
You'll find them in the face and air
Of Charles, merriest of kings.

You err! — you err! — I sad? — you dream
Sorrow ne'er touched a heart like mine
Wit — Beauty — Love are still my theme
And crown'd with Music, Flowers and Wine!

Boy bring the cup, the vase, the lyre
Awake, awake the soul of song!
Let odours, sound, sight, taste inspire
The pleasures that to sense belong.

What shall they say with ills opprest
Unto their yoke I bowed my neck?
When scaffolds echo to a jest,
And laughter rises from the wreck:

What hearts from living bosoms torn
Have bled with greater pangs than mine?
What ships on Ocean's bosom borne
Held hopes like those all wrecked on thine?

Yet the dark Indian's self-control
As soon shall leave him at the stake
At this stern, sullen, stubborn soul
Shall ever bow or bend or break.

No, no! all, all shall deem me gay
The sound of revelry and mirth
Shall grossly cheat these souls of clay
Who deem me of their kindred earth.

Bring, bring the cup, the vase, the lyre!
Wake Pleasure's maddening syren song!
Mask! quickly mask, that cursed fire,
The torches of the Fury throng!

The song! the Dance! away! away!
Rouse Mirth 'till all Night's echoes start!
Who now shall say I am not gay?
Who shall pretend to read my heart?