Classic Poem

Dear relic of the past! so sweetly fair,
O would that Pope, or of the Iliad, he
Could sing the tresses of thy golden hair,
In music, blessed maiden! worthy thee.
Had I the fleece of Argos — did I bear
A sultan's sceptre — dwell in palaces —
Rule half the world — thou, thou far more than these —
Thou, hundred times saluted prize, wert dear.
Thou, while it vibrates — thou my heart's own key!
Thou, who art beauty — who art all to me:
Thou — not disdainful — like a worldly maiden,
Say, when the wild wind with my dust is laden,
Wilt thou not take thy seat in heaven — a star
Where Berenice's tresses shine afar?