Classic Poem

Why should thy form upon the rack of pain —
Thy delicate form — be stretch'd? who ever true
And tender wert, and pure as morning dew.
On me, whose soul was black with many a stain,
Which, but ill purg'd, would oft appear again,
Till thy sweet influence did my life renew —
On me, if justice some high Power could do,
The doom were laid this bitter cup to drain.
My burden is, that thine I cannot bear.
Nightly I listen with love-quicken'd ears
To the half-utter'd moan which thou would'st fain
Wholly suppress, my tortur'd heart to spare;
Then is my pillow drench'd with silent tears —
Oh could they profit! — but I weep in vain.