Classic Poem

Let plaintive thoughts , in mournful numbers , flow,
Prose is too dull, for love , too calm for woe!
Has she not bid thee quit thy faithful flame!
Sell her , and truth , for Equipage , and N AME ?
Nay, she has bid thee go — Whence this delay?
Whence this fond, fruitless, ling'ring wish , to stay?
L — — a bids thee go — she, who, alone,
Makes all life's future blessings , means thee none!
Begone, then — let thy struggling heart obey,
And in long distance, sigh sad life away.
Still, still, vain, flatt'ring hope misleads fire .
Fed, by faint glimm'ring shoots of glow-worm fire .
What, tho' she sweetly writes , to ease thy grief ,
Or points kind comfort , by the folded leaf:
Such pity must thy grateful rev'rence move,
But judge it right — nor think compassion, love .
What tho' each word she marks , like Spring's soft show'rs,
Flows sweet, as new-blown breath of op'ning flow'rs ,
Such borrow'd sounds she need not have apply'd ,
Her own , more tuneful, thou too oft, hast try'd:
To speak, in musick , ever was her claim ,
And all grows harmony , that bears her name .

Had'st thou e'er touch'd her heart , with one soft pain ,
And, bless'd, in loving , been belov'd again;
All her cold reasoning doubts had ceas'd to move ,
And her whole gen'rous breast conceiv'd but love .
She , who believes not, loves not — Feel thy fate :
Friendship , from her , pains more than other's hate .
All the kind passions, wanting one , she'll own ,
But, that one wanting , all the rest are none .
Would love , and she , disperse the threat'ning storm ,
Let her believe , and trust , and break thro' form ;
Let her command thy stay , to know success ,
Nor fear the god-like attribute , to bless:
Born, to distinguish her , from womankind,
To court her converse , and to taste her mind ;
Fram'd, for her empire , with her image , fill'd,
Charm'd by her form , and, in her temper , skill'd;
Piercing her tim'rous heart's most secret thought ,
And knowing , and adoring, each dear fault ,
How art thou pain'd — to find her soft'ning will ,
Held, against love , by ev'ry guard of skill!
How art thou doom'd , to lengths of ope'ning woe ,
Should she feel love — yet, fear, to tell thee so ?

If she distrusts thy truth — all hope must fall ,
Doubting her pow'r, she disbelieves thee all.
And none, who doubts her lover , dares to love .
Go, then — to climes , cold, as her heart , remove;
A distant fate thy gloomy choice prefers,
Present , thou can'st not live, and not live hers .

Farewell, kind, cautious, unresolving, fair!
To hear thee bless'd , will charm amidst despair .
'Tis death , to go — 'tis more , than death , to stay ,
Rest will be soonest reach'd , the first dark way.
Ne'er may'st thou know a pain! still chearful be,
Nor check life's comforts , with one thought of me .