Classic Poem

Farewel, too frail, unhappy fair, adieu!
No more, Sophia, shall thy boasted charms,
Excite desire in the wondering crew,
To press thee, fair one, to polluted arms.

No more those lips, harmonious lays shall tune,
Or join in concert with quiv'ring lyre!
Thy honour blasted, beauteous fair, too soon,
Ere time had bade thee, Baddeley — retire.

Oft has Ophelia charm'd the list'ning throng,
And sooth'd to love the adamantine breast;
E'en the poor Indian melted at thy song,
And passion's self subsided into rest.

O had thy form with each attractive grace,
But firmly stood against Temptation's snare;
How would you shone amid'st the beauteous race,
The brightest lustre 'mongst the British fair!

Ah! hapless Brown, and hapless Badd'ley too,
To fatal passion each too prone inclin'd;
Two lovelier victims Nature never drew;
Ah! had that beauty blazon'd in each mind!

Not then, Sophia, had thy spotted fame,
Ere been the sport of justly pointed scorn;
Had Virtue grac'd but thy too tarnish'd name,
You ne'er had died in mis'ry, and forlorn.

The rose that sheds its fragrant sweets around,
Breathes its perfume o'er each unscented flow'r;
But chance some blast, extend its wonted bound,
How short its life, how limited its pow'r!

Such, Baddeley, ere guilty passions beat,
Scatter'd sweet odours clad in Virtue's bloom;
Ere the fell spoiler gather'd ev'ry sweet,
And fix'd the mourner for an early tomb.

Pity her failings, tho' you can't forgive,
Nor brand her mem'ry with a word severe;
By her example learn, ye fair, to live,
And Virtue, ever lovely girls, revere.