Classic Poem

'Tis past! the pangs of love are past,
I love, I love no more;
Yet who would think I am at last
More wretched than before?

How bless'd, when first my heart was freed
From love's tormenting care,
If cold indifference did succeed,
Instead of fierce despair?

But ah! how ill is he releas'd,
Though love a tyrant reigns,
When the successor in his breast
Redoubles all his pains:

In vain attempts the woeful wight,
That would despair remove,
Its little finger has more weight,
Than all the loins of love:

Thus the poor wretch that left his dome
With spirit foul accurst,
Found seven, returning late, at home
More dreadful than the first.

Well hop'd I once that constancy
Might soften rigonr's frown,
Would from the chains of hate set free,
And pay my ransom down:

But, ah! the judge is too severe,
I sink beneath his ire;
The sentence is gone forth, to bear
Despair's eternal fire.

The hopes of sinners, in the day
Of grace, their fears abate;
But every hope flies far away,
When mercy shuts her gate:

The smallest alms could oft suffice
Love's hunger to assuage;
Despair, the worm that never dies,
Still gnaws with ceaseless rage.