Classic Poem

The breeze of evening softly sighs,
To-night, upon the ocean's breast,
And, as the playful billows rise,
Then gently sinks again to rest,
While moonbeams tip each foamy crest.
And all is bright and calm above me,
I'll sing of thee, whom I love best,
And tell thee, Mary, why I love thee.

Thy form is fair, thy mien is light,
Thy cheek wears health and beauty's hue;
Thy teeth are pearls, thine eye is bright,
And as the waves around me blue;
But blush not, for the tale is true,
Far brighter eyes than thine I've seen,
A form as light and fair to view,
A cheek as soft, as graceful mien.

I've wandered o'er the boisterous main,
And trod on many a foreign strand;
I've seen the haughty dames of Spain,
And fam'd Italia's fairy band;
I've been in Gallia's frolic land;
I've been — in short, I've been a Rover —
But all their charms I coldly scann'd,
'Twas thou alone that madest me lover.

'Twas not because thy form was fair;
'Twas not because thine eyes were blue:
It was thy soul bright beaming there,
It was thy heart so warm, so true;
'Twas pity's drop of pearly dew,
That told how other's wo could move thee,
As for relief thy light steps flew —
It was for these I lov'd, and love thee.

And I will love thee, Mary, still,
Tho' far from all I love away,
Thro' storm and sunshine, good and ill,
Where'er my wandering steps may stray:
And when, at length, thy charms decay,
The flight of Time shall constant prove me;
Till in the grave this heart shall lay,
It still will warmly, fondly love thee.