Classic Poem

Dear Sister, my resentment had not been
So moving, if this Fate I had fore-seen;
Therefore to me this last kind office do,
Thou hast some interest in our scornful Foe,
He trusts to thee the Counsels of his mind,
Thou his soft hours, and free access canst find;
Tell him I sent not to the Ilian Coast
My Fleet to aid the Greeks; his Fathers Ghost
I never did disturb; ask him to lend
To this the last request that I shall send,
A gentle Ear; I wish that he may find
A happy passage, and a prosp'rous wind.
That contract I not plead, which he betray'd,
Nor that his promis'd Conquest be delay'd;
All that I ask, is but a short Reprieve,
Till I forget to love, and learn to grieve;
Some pause and respite only I require,
Till with my tears I shall have quencht my fire.
If thy address can but obtain one day
Or two, my Death that service shall repay.
Thus she intreats; such messages with tears
Condoling Anne to him, and from him bears;
But him no Prayers, no Arguments can move,
The Fates resist, his Ears are stopt by Jove:
As when fierce Northern blasts from th' Alpes descend,
From his firm roots with struggling gusts to rend
An aged sturdy Oak, the ratling sound
Grows loud, with leaves and scatter'd arms the ground
Is over-layd; yet he stands fixt, as high
As his proud head is raised towards the Sky,
So low towards Hell his roots descend. With Pray'rs
And Tears the Hero thus assail'd, great cares
He smothers in his Breast, yet keeps his Post,
All their addresses and their labour lost.