Classic Poem

Thy golden hair is left—its silky mesh
The spoiler shall not mar, whate'er he takes;
Nor that still-brilliant eye, that sleeps and wakes
Among the flowing sores: but thy fair flesh,
All-confluent now, and molten by disease,
Must keep the stamp which this sick fortnight gave
Even till that latest fusion in the grave
Runs off our ingrain'd evils; but for these
Sweet relics of thyself, and what thou wert
A brief moon since, I should be half afraid
That Love might shrink, and merry Hymen flirt
His robe at thy lost hopes, my little maid!
Thou smilest! Ah! I see no power can hurt
The fortunes or the loves of Alice Wade!