Classic Poem

Alas where shall I comfort find?
My peace is gone, distressed my mind,
My heart beats high,
I know not why,
Poor heart! ah me, ah me!
So tender, artless, and so young,
I listen'd to his flatt'ring tongue,
Nor did I e'er
Suspect a snare
From one who went to sea.

For sailors kind and honest are,
They injured virtue make their care,
One, only one, did e'er depart
From that prov'd rule, and he,
Ah me!
Was born to break my simple heart.

Alas, &c.

When absent from my longing arms,
Each hour was fraught with new alarms,
Each rising morn beheld my tears,
The softest breeze, in my fond fears,
Did the horizon straight deform,
And Zephyr grew into a storm:
Yet to be cheated of my bliss,
And was I then so kind for this?

Alas, &c.