Classic Poem

Inventive fancy, fertile maid!
Had form'd a face divine;
As painters by poetic aid,
The Graces all combine.

But when her snow-white taper hand,
The sable veil withdrew,
What gloomy anc'ret cou'd withstand
Such charms full in view.

Instinctive nature's rising flame,
Quick blush'd thro' ev'ry line;
Whilst tides of impulse swell'd the stream,
Which plac'd her hand in mine.

And if her throbbing pulse I prest,
Whilst flow'd the blood apace;
What sceptic grave cou'd stand the test,
Were he but in my place?