Classic Poem

W HENE'ER to gentle Emma's praise
I tune my soft enamour'd lays,
When on the face so dear I prize,
I fondly gaze with love-sick eyes;
‘Say, Damon,’ cries the smiling fair,
With modest and ingenuous air,
‘Tell of this homely frame, the part
To which I owe your vanquish'd heart.’

In vain, my Emma, would I tell
By what thy captive Damon fell;
The swain who partial charms can see
May own—but never lov'd like me!
Won by thy form and fairer mind,
So much my wishes are confin'd,
With lover's eyes so much I see,
Thy very faults are charms to me.