Classic Poem

When dear Clarinda, matchless fair,
First struck Sylvander's raptur'd view,
He gaz'd, he listen'd to despair,
Alas! 'twas all he dar'd to do.—

Love, from Clarinda's heavenly eyes,
Transfix'd his bosom thro' and thro';
But still in Friendship's guarded guise,
For more the demon fear'd to do.—

That heart, already more than lost,
The imp beleaguer'd all perdue;
For frowning Honor kept his post,
To meet that frown he shrunk to do.—

His pangs the Bard refus'd to own,
Tho' half he wish'd Clarinda knew:
But Anguish wrung th' unweeting groan—
Who blames what frantic Pain must do?

That heart, where motely follies blend,
Was sternly still to Honor true:
To prove Clarinda's fondest friend,
Was what a Lover sure might do.—

The Muse his ready quill employ'd,
No dearer bliss he could pursue;
That bliss Clarinda cold deny'd—
‘Send word by Charles how you do!’—

The chill behest disarm'd his muse,
Till Passion all impatient grew:
He wrote, and hinted for excuse,
‘Twas 'cause he'd nothing else to do.’—

But by those hopes I have above!
And by those faults I dearly rue!
The deed, the boldest mark of love,
For thee that deed I dare to do!—

O, could the Fates but name the price,
Would bless me with your charms and you!
With frantic joy I'd pay it thrice,
If human art or power could do!

Then take, Clarinda, friendship's hand,
(Friendship, at least, I may avow;)
And lay no more your chill command,
I'll write, whatever I've to do.—