Classic Poem

Come, Phœbus! with your loosely floating hair,
O soothe her torture, and restore the fair!
Come, quickly come! we supplicant implore,
Such charms your happy skill ne'er sav'd before!
Let not her frame, consumptive, pine away,
Her eyes grow languid, and her bloom decay;
Propitious come! and with you bring along
Each pain-subduing herb, and soothing song;
Or real ills, or whate'er ills we fear,
To ocean's furthest verge let torrents bear.
O! rack no more, with harsh, unkind delays,
The youth, who ceaseless for her safety prays;
'Twixt love and rage his tortur'd soul is torn;
And now he prays, now treats the gods with scorn.
Take heart, fond youth! you have not vainly pray'd;
Still persevere to love the' enchanting maid:
Sulpicia is your own! for you she sighs,
And slights all other conquests of her eyes:
Dry then your tears; your tears would fitly flow
Did she on others her esteem bestow.
O come! what honour will be yours, to save
At once two lovers from the doleful grave?
Then both will, emulous, exalt your skill;
With grateful tablets, both your temples fill:
Both heap with spicy gums your sacred fire;
Both sing your praises to the' harmonious lyre:
Your brother gods will prize your healing powers,
Lament their attributes, and envy yours.