Classic Poem

Yes! let us part, while yet we may,
Ere wishes wild and warm begin,
Or Love will lead our souls astray
And we may wander into sin.

Where then would be thy spirits light,
Thy manners innocently gay?
The peaceful slumbers of the night,
The tranquil pleasures of the day?

And where would be the steady beams
That Virtue lends thine eyes of flame?
And where the blush that never gleams
To warn us of the bosom's shame?

O! they would fly, forever fly
To seek some purer holier shrine;
But not to light a brighter eye,
Or warm a lovelier cheek than thine!

What then were left?—a hectic blaze
The beacon-fire of vicious guile,
An anxious look—an eager gaze—
A feverish sigh—a languid smile!

Thus thou would'st lose, in beauty's prime,
The purity that won my heart,
And I should live to curse the crime
That taught thee every wanton's art.

Or oh! if less ensnared by ill,
Thy soul should mourn its lost repose,
Should weep our fault—yet love it still,
That were the keenest—worst of woes!

For could I bear to hear thee sigh
And know thy sighs were caused by me,
Or see thee weep, and feel that I
Had wrung those bitter tears from thee?

Think'st thou, that I could witness this,
Nor give thee tear for tear again? …
And is one moments guilty bliss
Worth a whole Life of fruitless pain?

And yet one hour … one little hour,
In Love's esteem far far outweighs
The richest gift in Virtue's power
Heaven's sweetest softest note of praise!

And thou wilt hate me, if we part,
And turn my counsel all to jest,
Scorning the cold and languid heart
That might—and did not dare—be blest!

Then Dearest stay!—one moment yet—
Turn, turn, those fatal eyes away
And let me, if I can forget,
The light that leads my soul astray!

The flame that burns so brightly now
Like other flames may yet decay;
The heart that broke a former vow
O! will it not again betray?

Then shun, O! shun, the wild'ring fire
Beneath whose dangerous light we range
Seek milder beams that ne'er expire
And calmer hearts that never change!

They'll love thee with so pure a love
With such a holy, heavenly zeal,
As sainted souls in Heaven above
For other saints on earth might feel!

Will that suffice?—What no reply
Nay then my pious rhetorick faints—
Thou know'st my heart—I read thine eye—
Alas! we were not made for saints!