Classic Poem

And wilt thou then, my lover see?
And wilt thou hear him speak?
De Courcy, bring him back to me,
Or sure my heart will break!

Hast thou not mark'd the gushing tears, —
The sighs that rend my breast;
The dread suspence, — the anxious fears
That rob my soul of rest?

O yes! thou hast with pitying eye, —
Dost wish to soothe my care?
Then haste thee, haste, De Courcy fly,
And save me from despair!

I long, I long to hear thee tell,
" Thy love said this and this, —
I saw him safe — I saw him well; "
Such tidings will be bliss!

Pierce thro' his bosom's close recess,
O! strive his heart to see,
And then with grateful joy confess,
That heart still beats for me .

For him the purest flames of love,
Within my bosom glow,
And, O! how slowly time will move
'Till thy return, — how slow! "

My thoughts, a thousand terrors rack,
Wild flutt'ring on the wing!
I wish thee there, — I wish thee back,
Yet dread the news thou'lt bring!

Alas! if he should fickle be,
For one more rich and fair!
O! will she, can she love like me;
Or, left , like me despair?

Yet, if of richer gifts possest,
Her love can equal mine ,
His heart , the gem that graced my breast,
Unsullied I'll resign.

Then, when, of all my treasure rest,
I view the chearless day,
No pleasing expectation left,
To gild my lonely way.

Then soon within this woe-worn frame,
The pulse will cease to beat;
Then soon the spark of heavenly flame
Will lose its vital heat.

Yet grieve not, — grieve not, gentle youth,
When all my sorrow's o'er, —
When, victim of unblemish'd truth,
I suffer pain no more.

And, oh! I charge thee curb thy hate, —
Thy friendly rage controul:
To censure him who urg'd my fate,
Will vex my troubled soul.

My thoughts a thousand terrors rack,
Wild flutt'ring on the wing;
I wish thee there, — I wish thee back,
Yet dread the news thou'lt bring!

De Courcy, if my lover's dead!
The tidings fearless tell, —
If dark and narrow is the bed
Of him I love so well!

Do not the fatal secret keep,
I will not heave a sigh!
No more for him these eyes shall weep,
No, no , — for him I'll die .

Seek not my wretched life to save, —
To lengthen weary hours,
But lead me, lead me to his grave,
I'll deck it round with flowers:

Nor quit the cold sepulchral stone,
Till grief has froze my breast;
Then I , who lived for him alone,
Beneath his turf will rest.

My thoughts a thousand terrors rack,
Wild flutt'ring on the wing!
I wish thee there, I wish thee back,
Yet dread the news thou'lt bring.

May Heaven preserve his faultless form,
With never ceasing care;
Nor let the whirlwind's ruthless storm
That beauteous cedar tear!

I, like the woodbine, round him twine
More close at every gust;
With him my fate I proudly join, —
With him I sink to dust.

Will he, De Courcy, ever fling
Me , trembling, far away?
Bid me no more around him cling,
But crush'd to earth decay?

Will he unpitied let me lie,
From ev'ry blessing torn?
And calmly — calmly see me die
Neglected and forlorn?

My thoughts a thousand terrors rack,
Wild flutt'ring on the wing!
I wish thee there, — I wish thee back,
Yet, dread the news thou'lt bring.