Classic Poem

When Charles was deceived by the maid he loved,
We saw no cloud his brow o'ercasting,
But proudly he smiled as if gay and unmoved,
Tho' the wound in his heart was deep and lasting.
And oft at night when the tempest rolled
He sung as he paced the dark deck over—
“Blow, wind, blow! thou art not so cold
As the heart of a maid that deceives her lover.”

Yet he lived with the happy and seemed to be gay,
Tho' the wound but sunk more deep for concealing;
And Fortune threw many a thorn in his way,
Which, true to one anguish, he trod without feeling!
And still by the frowning of Fate unsubdued
He sung as if sorrow had placed him above her—
“Frown, Fate, frown! thou art not so rude
As the heart of a maid that deceives her lover.”

At length his career found a close in death,
The close he long wished to his cheerless roving,
For Victory shone on his latest breath,
And he died in a cause of his heart's approving.
But still he remembered his sorrow,—and still
He sung till the vision of life was over—
“Come, death, come! thou art not so chill
As the heart of a maid that deceives her lover.”