Classic Poem

She, who a maiden, taught me [,] Love, thy woes,
Tomorrow I shall see a new made bride,
Like, if I err not, a fresh-gather'd rose
Opening her bosom to the sun with pride.
But Him, for whom thus flush'd with joy it blows
Whene'er I see, my blood will scarcely glide,
Perhaps with Jealousy it would have froze
Had not a ray of Pity thawed its tide:
Thou only know'st — And now alas! I haste
Where I must see that snowy neck and breast
By envied fingers played with and embraced;
How shall I live, or how find peace or rest
If one kind look on me, thou wilt not waste
To hint not vain my sighs nor all unblest?