Classic Poem

WHEN I sat by my fair, and she tremblingly told
The soft wishes and doubts of her heart,
How quickly old Time then delightfully roll'd,
For Love lent the plume from his dart,
From the blush of her cheek how my bosom caught flame,
And her eyes spoke a fondness, her lips would not name!

But her cheek that once rival'd the summer's full rose,
Now as April's sad primrose is pale,
In her eye, now, no bright sensibility glows,
Tho' I breathe forth Truth's rapturous tale,
And thy moments, old Time, that on downy feet fled,
Ah me! are now fetter'd and weighty with lead.

Yet, surely, tho' much of her passion is past,
Some sparks of affection remain;
And the clouds that her meek-beaming brow have o'ercast,
May be melted in Pity's soft rain;
If not, my wrung breast to Distraction I bare,
Distraction itself, is less hard than Despair!