Classic Poem

Oh, where will you hurry my dearest?
Say, say, to what clime or what shore?
You tear him from me, the sincerest
That ever lov'd mortal before.

Ah! cruel, hard-hearted to press him
And force the dear youth from my arms!
Restore him, that I may caress him,
And shield him from future alarms.

In vain you insult and deride me
And make but a scoff of my woes;
You ne'er from my dear shall divide me—
I'll follow wherever he goes.

Think not of the merciless ocean—
My soul any terror can brave,
For soon as the ship makes its motion,
So soon shall the sea be my grave.