Classic Poem

Ye soft Ideas leave this tortur'd Breast
And thou fond Heart, go beat thy selfe to rest.
Reason (if once I offer'd at thy Shrine)
Now bring thy Aid, exert thy right Divine,
Subdue these Passions that resist thy sway
And teach my Rebel Wishes to obey.
Come calm Oblivion chase away my Cares,
Quiet this throbbing Pulse, repel my tears,
Blot out this Imagery of Joy and pain,
These mix'd emotions that confuse my Brain,
Which poetry it selfe cannot reveal,
Which only he could raise, and I can feel.
He comes! — 'twas nothing but the rustling Wind,
He has forgot, is faithless, is unkind —
While expectation rends my labouring mind.
Can all the pleasures that he brings me pay
For the long sighing of this tedious day?
Thou watchfull Taper by whose silent Light
I lonely pass the melancholy night,
Thou faithfull Wittness of my secret pain
To whom alone I venture to complain.