Classic Poem

Tell me not that thou dost love me,
Though it thrill me with delight:
Thou art, like the stars, above me;
I — the lowly earth, at night.

Hast thou ( thou from kings descended)
Loved the Indian cottage-born;
And shall she, whom Love befriended,
Darken all thy hopeful morn?

Go, — and, for thy father's glory,
Wed the blood that's pure and free:
'Tis enough to gild my story
That I once was loved by thee!