Classic Poem

Those pleasant hills high towering into air,
Where lingers with delight my captive soul,
Are ever in mine eyes, and still I bear
Love's burthen even to earth's extremest pole.
Oft do I strive to free myself in vain
From the sad yoke imposed by despot Love:
Nor Time, nor Distance e'er relieve his pain
That's doomed such cruel woes as mine to prove.
Swift bounding o'er the plain the wretched hart,
Which cruel huntsman from afar espies,
Receives into his side the barbed dart
That pains him all the more, the more he flies; —
Thus rankling in my side Love's shaft doth lie,
'Tis death to tarry, but what pain to fly?