Classic Poem

Love , lawless tyrant of my breast,
When will my passions be at rest,
And in soft murmurs roll—
When will the dove-ey'd goddess, Peace,
Bid black despair and torment cease,
And wake to joy my soul?

Adieu! ye flow'r-bespangled hills;
Adieu! ye softly-purling rills,
That through the meadows play;
Adieu! the cool refreshing shade,
By hoary oaks and woodbines made,
Where oft with joy I lay.

No more beneath your boughs I hear,
With pleasure unallayed by fear,
The distant Severne roar—
Adieu! the forest's mossy side
Deck'd out in Flora's richest pride:
Ye can delight no more.

Oft at the solitary hour
When Melancholy's silent power
Is gliding through the shade;
With raging Madness by her side,
Whose hands, in blood and murder dy'd,
Display the reeking blade,

I catch the eccho of their feet,
And follow to their drear retreat
Of deadliest nightshade wove:
There, stretch'd upon the dewy ground,
Whilst noxious vapours rise around,
I sigh my tale of love.

Oft has the solemn bird of night,
When rising to his gloomy flight,
Unseen against me fled!
Whilst snakes in curling orbs uproll'd,
Bedrop'd with azure, flame, and gold,
Hurl'd poison at my head.

O say! thou best of womankind,
Thou miracle, in whom we find
Wit, charms, and sense unite,
Can plagues like these be always borne?
No; if I still must meet your scorn,
I'll seek the realms of night.