Classic Poem

A thousand torments wait on love —
The sigh, the tear, the anguished groan —
But he who never learnt to prove
A jealous pang has nothing known!

For jealousy, supreme of woe,
Nursed by distorted fancy's power,
Can round the heart bid misery grow,
Which darkens with the lingering hour,

While shadows, blanks to reason's orb,
In dread succession haunt the brain,
And pangs, that every pang absorb,
In wild, convulsive tumults reign.

At morn, at eve, the fever burns,
While phantoms tear the aching breast;
Day brings no calm, and night returns
To mark no soothing hour of rest.

Nor, when the bosom's wasted fires
Are all extinct, is anguish o'er;
For jealousy , that ne'er expires,
Still wounds, when passion lives no more.