Classic Poem

My life's whole pilgrimage have I not told —
Mapping my Past before those loving eyes,
With such minuteness that they might behold
Each hair-line of my soul, without disguise?
Was Truth not woven, every line acrost —
An iron thread through silver subtleties
Of Fancy or of Feeling, howe'er gloss'd?
Was Faith not there, at rein or helm the while,
A guide, a check, for fancy's luring smile,
A guide, a check, for feeling passion-toss'd?
Oh, how then, now, can thought of me so vile,
Thought as of one to truth and faith both lost,
Ignobly come thy bosom to beguile,
And kill affection with suspicion's frost!