Classic Poem

Yes—now 'tis time to die—despair comes on;
Who keeps the body , when the soul is gone?
She sets —fair light , that shew'd me all my joy,
And, like the sun's , her absence must destroy .
She, who once wept my fancy'd loss of breath,
Now , crimeless murd'rer! gives me real death.

 Yet, have a care, touch'd heart , nor sigh one thought ,
That stains such goodness with a purpos'd fault .
Soft, as her tears , her gentle meanings move;
Her soul sheds sweetness , tho' her look is love .
Her voice is musick , tun'd to heav'n's low note;
Her touch bids transport , thro' each art'ry, float;
Her step is dignity , by pity checkt;
At once, she fans desire , and plants respect .
Unconscious of her charms , she dreams of none ,
And doubling other's praises, shuns her own .
Modest, in pow'r , as kneeling angels pray,
Noiseless, as night's soft shade, tho' bright, as day .
Wise , unassumingly; serenely deep ,
Easy as air , and innocent, as sleep :
Blooming, like beauty , when adorn'd for sin ,
Yet, like the bud , unblown, all blush within.

 O! 'tis impossible, to quit such bliss ,
Yet live, superior to a loss, like this!
Where will she, next, her thousand conquests make?
On what new climate will her sun-shine break?
Where will she next, (sweet tasker of my care! )
Teach our charm'd sex, to hope, to wish, to dare?
Far from her fruitless guardian's watchful eye ,
What may she hear! what answer! oh! I'll die .
Bless'd by her sight —time's race were one short stage;
She gone —one widow'd moment were an age .