Classic Poem

Oh, could I but sing as the minstrels of old!
Whose beautiful love songs ring still in our ear!
In accents so musical, rhythmical, clear,
Now soaring majestical, now hov'ring near,
With passionate tenderness, shy and yet bold,
That enamored his lady-love, ruffled her breast,
And drew her frail form to his bosom, for rest!

Oh, could I, my sweetheart charm thus to my breast,
Methink overflowing, my cup would then be;
To gaze to the depth, of those eyes' liquid se.,
And cause them to waver and droop before me,
And to feel my glad heart throb wild with the zest,
While tenderly holding her in my embrace,
And feasting my eyes on her fair, angel face.

But alas I am luckless, dear Emma the best,
And sternly hath Cupid dealt fate unto me;
To stir my love passion, and yet let me see,
A maiden that yearneth another's to be,
And yearns not in vain, to be queen of his breast,
For my bosom too often has felt that keen dart,
To be wrong in sounding a brother's sore heart.