Classic Poem

S UPERSCRIPTION .

Fly, truth's sad bearer, fly!
To her fair hands, who blest my hopes, too late,
And beg one tear, to mourn thy master's fate.

The Answer .

I.

I Read, with pleasing pain, your letter o'er,
And when, beyond my hopes, I found you kind,
To think, I had sworn, I ne'er wou'd see you more,
At once, ten thousand passions tore my mind.

II.

The anchor-heaving ship prepares to sail;
The winds, malicious, sing, at my distress;
The op'ning canvas hugs th' officious gale,
Did ever love chuse such a time, to bless?

III.

Ill-judging sex! high-skill'd, in cruel arts,
To hide the joy, you give, in mingled pain!
Sportful, you toy, and fret your slave's fond hearts,
'Till oaths, or reason, break the galling chain.

IV.

Then, when but one sad choice remains to take,
To quit our honour, or wish'd love refuse;
Too late, you sigh, for your lost servant's sake,
And proffer treasures, which he dares not use.