Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, TO OPIUM, by MARIA LOGAN


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

TO OPIUM, by                    
First Line: Let others boast the golden spoil
Last Line: Admiring, own thy pow'r!
Subject(s): Drugs & Drug Abuse; Narcotics; Opium; Cocaine; Crack; Heroin


Let others boast the golden spoil,
Which Indian climes afford;
And still with unavailing toil,
Increase the shining hoard:—

Still let Golconda's dazzling pride
On Beauty's forehead glow,
And round the fair, on ev'ry side,
Sabean odours flow:—

Be mine the balm, whose sov'reign pow'r
Can still the throb of Pain;
The produce of the scentless flow'r,
That strews Hindostan's plain.

No gaudy hue its form displays,
To catch the roving eye;
And Ignorance, with vacant gaze,
May pass regardless by.

But shall the Muse with cold disdain,
Its simple charms behold!
Shall she devote the tuneful strain
To incense, gems, or gold!

When latent ills the frame pervade,
And mock the healing art;
Thy friendly balm shall lend its aid,
And transient ease impart;

Shall charm the restless hour of day,
And cheer the midnight gloom;
Shall blunt each thorn, which strews the way
That leads us to the tomb.

And oft, when Reason vainly tries
To calm the troubled breast,
Thy pow'r can seal our streaming eyes,
And bid our sorrows rest.

What tho' this calm must quickly cease,
And Grief resume its pow'r,
The heart that long has sigh'd for ease,
Will prize the tranquil hour.

A short oblivion of its care
Relieves the weary'd mind,
Till suff'ring nature learns to bear
The weight by Heav'n assign'd.

Reviv'd by thee, my drooping Muse
Now pours the grateful strain,
And Fancy's hand sweet flow'rets strews
Around the bed of Pain.

At her command gay scenes arise
To charm my raptur'd sight,
While Memory's faithful hand supplies
Past objects of delight.

Yet Memory's soothing charms were vain,
Without thy friendly aid;
And sportive Fancy's smiling train,
Would fly Disease's shade—

Did not thy magic pow'r supply,
A mild, tho' transient ray;
As meteors in a northern sky,
Shed artificial day.

And shall my humble Muse alone
Thy peerless worth declare!
A Muse to all the world unknown,
Whose songs are lost in air.

O! may the bard, whose tuneful strain
Resounds thro' Derwent's vale,
At whose command the hosts of Pain,
Disease and Sickness, fail—

That sage, to whom the God of Day
His various gifts imparts,
Whose healing pow'r, whose melting lay,
United, charm our hearts—

May he devote one tuneful page,
To thee, neglected Flow'r!
Then Fame shall bid each future age,
Admiring, own thy pow'r!





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