Classic Poem

Seest thou yon spacious park whose swelling trees,
In groupes irregularly pleasing, rise,
O'er land that heaves and falls with happiest ease,
And long allures the pausing traveller's eyes?

Seest thou yon maim'd oldman, whose patient tread
Speaks the worn pilgrim; brown with many a sun;
In rags of dull obliterated red,
That haply witness'd long past battles won!

Hear'st thou — as halts the reverend cripple now;
As his dim eyes the stately seat descry;
(Shaking the thin white hairs that streak his brow;)
Hear'st thou the hoary veteran breathe a sigh?

Thou think'st he envies: true, he owns no home;
True, tho' his youth was brave, his age wants bread:
Than heav'n's high arch he boasts no other dome;
Than earth's green lap he knows no other bed.

Thou think'st he envies: No; — from pity rose
That deep-drawn sigh; the breath of generous pain!
Full well the houseless, friendless wanderer knows,
An heavier heart than his yon walls contain.

'Tis CRUEL guilt those stately walls reward!
'Tis CONSCIOUS guilt that pines amid its prize!
Wages of deeds that pardon's door have barr'd,
Bloom in those woods, in those high turrets rise!

The patient sky's calm sufferance cease to blame,
That lets him thus in smiling Eden dwell:
No angel need, with sword of awful flame,
The tenant of those prosperous shades expel.

He is ejected from his blissful bow'rs;
No bliss for him the sweet alcoves contain:
In vain, for him, Spring paints her fairest flow'rs;
And the broad umbrage spreads, for him, in vain.

Invoke no vengeful fire from heav'n, to smite
The sylvan honours of his beauteous lands:
Sear'd by thy light'ning, Conscience, in his sight,
All the dry scene one blasted ruin stands!

To thee, 'tis sweet to mark this wavy ground,
Here swell in hills, and there in vales decline;
But ah! to him 'tis desert all around!
It is not his , the fair domain is thine!

To the retiring patriot's vacant hour
What soft repose these quiet shades would lend!
How sweetly his unbending mind embower,
And sooth to private ease the public friend!

Hither the laurel'd writer might retreat,
Whose honest pen obtains him just applause;
And, pleas'd, reflect, in this elysian seat,
On errors quell'd, and Truth's advancing cause!

Wand'ring with leisure step these glades along,
Here too in peace might private Worth retire;
To taste the page of knowledge or of song,
Wipe neighbouring tears, and bliss around inspire!

Here, in life's sober ev'ning, how serene
Might virtuous Age the blameless day review!
And calmly hope, while autumn fades the green,
That fading man shall his lost bloom renew.

Or, in life's rapturous morn, from grove to grove,
With careless step, young Innocence might stray;
And sweep, with idle hand, the lyre of love;
Or in romantic visions waste the day.

But in what region smiles that witching spot,
Can still a conscience-goaded wretch's groans?
The dreadful past shall never be forgot,
E'en here, by him who this elysium owns!

Intruding terrors, in this sweet retreat,
Thro' all the screening shades their passage force:
These trees shall shelter him from summer's heat,
Shut out his suns, but ne'er exclude remorse.

By these pure gales, these balmy zephyrs fed,
Her bloom on others Health would here bestow:
His cheek, alas! remains a sterile bed,
Where her fair ofes still refuse to blow.

These bowery solitudes, to others dear,
Where Peace may 'scape from noise, and hide from noon.
To him are lost, who, froze with guilty fears,
Dares not to think, and dreads to be alone.

'Tis nought to him, that thro' embracing boughs
The piercing sun scarce finds a scanty way,
O'er the dark path a fritter'd splendour throws,
Sprinkling the sylvan night with drops of day.

These woods contain no Dryads for his dreams;
No dancing Graces press his velvet green:
Nor Naiads lave them in his silver streams;
Far other airy people haunt the scene!

Far other shapes than classic Fancy please,
Far other than poetic visions rise!
Pale injur'd forms, the trembling wanderer sees,
Glide thro' his shades, and fix reproachful eyes!

Oft has attentive Pity mark'd his walks;
And watch'd each sign that speaks the troubled breast:
He starts at nothing! and to nothing talks!
Nor e'er are seen his busy lips to rest!

His roving foot oft sudden will he stay
And long time stand, as to the earth he grew;
Sudden he wakes, and hurries on his way,
And his quick steps announce what thoughts pursue!

A slave behind him, constant as his shade,
From solitude his mute protector, treads:
Ill fares the coward of himself afraid!
No guard can e'er repulse the foes he dreads.

The social band has seen him absent sit;
Heard the stol'n sigh the bosom's load betray;
Of sickly gladness mark'd the languid fit;
And mark'd the mournful struggle to be gay.

Less biting cares th' oblivious bowl has drown'd;
His keener sorrows find no Lethe there:
They wake, when wine, and mirth, and song go round,
Break the gay circle, nor the raptures share.

Fast gnaws the inward worm its withering prey;
The fading face reveals the mortal pain;
The wide-spread pomp is passing swift away;
Thy pensive eye shall seek him soon in vain.