Classic Poem

Passion is blind not Love: her wondrous might
Informs with three-fold pow'r man's inward sight: —
To her deep glance the soul at large displayed
Shews all its mingled mass of light and shade: —
Men call her blind when she but turns her head,
Nor scans the fault for which her tears are shed.
Can dull Indifference or Hate's troubled gaze
See through the secret heart's mysterious maze? —

Can Scorn and Envy pierce that " dread abode",
Where true faults rest beneath the eye of God?
Not theirs, 'mid inward darkness, to discern
The spiritual splendours how they shine and burn.
All bright endowments of a noble mind
They, who with joy behold them, soonest find;
And better none its stains of frailty know
Than they who fain would see it white as snow.