Classic Poem

 Two fleeting shadows cleft the dusky air,
Once—an impassion'd youth—and melting fair;
Their glowing fancy had surviv'd the tomb,
Recall'd their bliss—and cheer'd its penal doom;
Nor guilty Fear—nor self-accusing Shame,
Had yet extinguish'd their unhallow'd flame.
Together bound—as when the murdering steel
Pierc'd with avenging Honour's last appeal.
I saw the tears diffuse their streams in vain,
I heard the anguish of Despair complain;
With horror struck I fell upon the earth,
And rent my heart for Love's ill-fated birth;
Immers'd in hopeless Terror's whelming tide,
With prayer I thus implor'd my sacred Guide:
 “Let me address the Pair—whose lighter form
Precedes the raging blast, and flaming storm;
I 'd speak to them with Pity's gentle breath,
And, sympathizing, hear the tale of Death.”
“To them your sorrows,” he reply'd, “are due—
The wind relents—adjure them to renew
The dear, though sad impressions! to relate
Their love, their crime, their pleasures, and their fate.”
 I wav'd my hand, and said: “Afflicted Pair!
To him that feels the dart of Love—repair!
If the condoling tear can soften grief,
Impart your sorrows, and command relief!”
 They saw, they heard, and, like a pair of Doves,
When to their nest, the witness of their loves,
They hear the summons, and with joy return,
Spread their light wings, and with impatience burn—
Felt a new life in Pity's magic tone,
And lost the heart that made their grief its own.
Their glittering forms reveal'd—they answer'd thus:
“Hail, gentle Spirit, that can visit us
In these benighted regions, who have stain'd
The Earth with Guilt's polluting blood—profan'd
The rites of Marriage, and before the time
Came hither—victims of the subtle crime,
That lures the passions from their galling yoke,
And braves the jealous fury's mortal stroke.
If He , dread Arbiter of Good and Ill,
Can ever soften his offended will;
Be thy unsully'd prayer to Him address'd!
But, as the gale admits a moment's rest,
Thy will explain!—demand! and we comply.
Ask, and we answer.”—“Tell me then,” said I,
“For whom ye suffer'd? where ye sinn'd? or how?
What flame seduc'd you from the nuptial vow?
What charms allur'd you to unsanction'd bliss?
What hapless doom betray'd the rifled kiss?”
 The Fair-one answer'd, “Where the Po descends
In Ocean's lap, and where its fury ends,
On this devoted Youth, by Love caress'd,
A dear, though guilty, object was impress'd;
Nor yet we part—combin'd in Passion's flame,
In guilt, in joy, in penal doom, the same.
 One day—of Lancelot the Loves we read,
The Loves enjoy'd—the bower, and the bed;
Alas! too often, in the amorous tale,
Our eyes had met—I blush'd—and then grew pale.
But, when to that sweet point the Readers came,
Where Love's impassion'd theme inspir'd its flame,
The book was dropp'd —the leaves were clos'd, and then—
My heart's preferr'd amid the Sons of Men,
The Youth whom still with transport I adore,
Kiss'd me all trembling, and we read no more,”

She , on that cloud, in Beauty's light,
Who came to earth, and bless'd the night,
 Is Mother to the God of Love;
In silent Ev'ning's hallow'd shade,
Her fleetest car the winds obey'd,
 Light were the reins upon the Dove.

She came at Hymen's call—to shed
Her charm upon the Nuptial bed,
 The Loves equipp'd, her train attend;
Experiments upon the bow
They seem with rival skill to show,
 But hide the little darts they send.

The Sister-Graces, not unseen,
A wreath accept from Beauty's Queen,
 And crown the choice by Love impress'd;
But why laments the Virgin Bride?—
Her blushing fear the Nymphs deride;
 And her own dimples— tell the rest .