Classic Poem

Where were ye, Muses! when relentless Fate
From these fond arms your fair disciple tore,
From these fond arms, that vainly strove
With hapless ineffectual love
To guard her bosom from the mortal blow?
Could not your fav'ring pow'r, Aonian Maids!
Could not, alas! your pow'r prolong her date,
From whom so oft' in these inspiring shades,
Or under Campden's moss-clad mountains hoar,
You open'd all your sacred store,
Whate'er your ancient sages taught,
Your ancient bards sublimely thought,
And bad herraptur'd breast with all your spirit glow?