Classic Poem

Go, happy paper! gently steal ,
And, soft, beneath her pillow, lie:
There, in a dream, my love reveal,
A love, that awe must, else, conceal ,
In silent doubt, to die.

Should she, to flames , thy hope consign,
Thy suff'ring moment soon expires;
A longer pain, alas! is mine,
Condemn'd, in endless woe, to pine,
And feel unslack'ning fires.

But, if inclin'd to hear, and bless,
While, in her heart, soft pity stirs;
Tell her — her beauties might compel
A hermit , to forsake his cell ,
And change his heav'n, for hers .

Oh! tell her — were her treasures mine,
Nature , and art would court my aid;
The painter's colours want her shine ;
The rainbow's brow not half so fine,
As her sweet eye-lids shade!
By day, the sun might spare his rays;
No star make ev'ning bright;
Her op'ning eyes, with sweeter blaze,
Should measure all my smiling days ,
And, if she slept , 'twere night .