Classic Poem

I.

I took the paper, in my trembling hand,
Which, having writ your name, my pen confin'd:
And forc'd my hasty will, to make a stand,
While love's imperious tempest shook my mind.

II.

Cold, languid sweats, fall, gently, from my brow,
And, while I strive to write, I love you, well;
My conscious heart whispers — thou know'st not how!
Alas! thou lov'st him more, than thou can'st tell.

III.

What, then, remains, in this extreme, to do?
Say, trembling hand! cold, icy heart, declare!
You guide my fate: I'm blest, if you prove true ,
And nothing, sure! is false , that looks so fair .

IV.

Some maids are ruin'd, and no pity find!
But their deceivers were not made, like mine ;
Ah! who can see thy face, and not be kind?
Or stand the charms of such a tongue, as thine!