Classic Poem

O was it fair?
Fair, kind, or pitiful to one
Quite heart-subdued—all bravery done,
Coyness to deep devotion turned,
Yet pure the flame with which she burned,—
O was it fair that thou should'st come,
Strong in this weakness, to my home,
And at my most defenceless hour,
Midnight, should'st steal into my bower,
In thy triumphant beauty more
Fatal that night than e'er before;
Angel of my destruction! say
What drew thy demon steps that way?
At such an hour—ungenerous youth,
'Twas a most kindless deed in sooth—
Thou know'st my woman's heart was weak,
Yet still would'st that frail moment seek,
Protective age to slumber gone,
Thou knew'st, thou knew'st I was alone,
Loose-girded, warm, suspicion-free,
My bosom full of love and thee!
At my green arbour-window I
Drank the Night's balm voluptuously
And all surrendered to my harm;
Looked moonward, leaning on my arm,
With eyes upon that lonely star
Wandering Heaven's blue wastes afar;
The musk-wind kist the tendrils young
That round my glimmering lattice hung,
And seemed with treacherous sighs to say,
How blissful, sweet, was that fond play!
O'er my flushed cheeks at times the air
Swept like a passing Zephyr's hair,
As it would by caresses bland
Inure me to a wanton hand:
Thou knew'st the peril of this hour,
Yet seized it—to invade my bower!

Inhuman!—and was this the time
To tempt my soul with passion's crime?
How could'st thou, bent on virtue's death,
Woo me with such delicious breath,
That mine was held in holy fear,
Lest one faint word might 'scape my ear?
How could'st thou, with those suppliant eyes,
Locked hands, and most unhappy sighs,
Implore me for thy sacrifice?
Was it a tender lover's part
To plead with such entrancing art?
Was it not merciless in thee
So fond, so gently fond to be?
So winning, soft to speak and smile,
The guilt was hidden in the guile;
So glorious in thy beauty's might,
That sense grew dizzy at the sight,
In voice, form, face, resistless all,
That victim Virtue needs must fall.

Ah! in a less unguarded hour,
Thou should'st have come into my bower;
Or come with speech, and heart and brow,
As cold and passionless as now!