Classic Poem

Beautiful maid! I court thy smiles,
I woo that breast which ne'er beguiles.
The warmest love is soonest past,
But ours with heaven and earth shall last;
Hands fastest knit will often sever,
But ours once joined, are joined for ever!

Do I not love thee? read this brow —
Lines of thy own are traced there now;
This cheek has caught thy pallid hue,
This lip thy bitter smiling too,
And this sunk eye, this wasted frame,
The mistress whom I serve proclaim.

Alas! the bride I should have wed,
Young Hope, my early love, is dead;
I mourned from one so fair to part,
I buried her in a broken heart;
The stone that marks her lowly place,
Oh! read its lines in this wan face!

But thou'rt far fairer! thou alone
Canst soothe the breast she taught to groan;
One clasp in those embraces chill
Will bid this throbbing breast be still;
One kiss from that lip's treasured store,
And this hot pulse will boil no more.

Come, come! the cypress for thy head
Is twined; the bridal couch is spread:
The mandrake's voice is raised to bless it,
The night-shade sheds its leaves to dress it,
The worm's our guide, and that stern knell,
Sweet maid, 'tis but our marriage-bell.

Ah! now I press thy earthy cheek;
And now these tortured heart-strings break;
And now I feel thy icy breast
Rocking my weary thoughts to rest;
And now thy cold arms round me twine,
And thou art mine — and I am thine.