Classic Poem

I.

Sweet! hither turn that beautiful dark eye,
And smile approval on these lowly lays;
I ask no richer meed — no fame more high
Than (if not all unworthy) thy fond praise;
Others may toil for aye-enduring bays —
Such I deserve not — nor are such my aim:
Something of sorrow darkeneth my days,
And the support and soothing I would claim,
Must spring from Love alone — wilt thou vouchsafe the same?

II.

I know thou wilt! for thou hast been to me,
In Grief's o'erwhelming hour, a gentle friend,
And firm as gentle. Such dear dreams of thee,
With all I have of woe or joyance blend,
That could my heart some better tribute send,
Than praise and thanks breathed in weak Minstrelsy,
With gift so rude as this, I would not bend
Before the shrine of one in whom I see
All that a Woman can — all that a Friend should be!

III.

Could I now view thy spirit-soothing eyes,
And lean upon thy ever-constant breast,
And drink the perfume of thine eloquent sighs,
And so forget the world — and sink to rest —
Beyond my wildest dreaming I were blest!
But torn from thee, and sick at heart — by clouds
Of Past and Future shadowed and opprest,
A darkness strange my wayward soul enshrouds,
And wild and bitter thoughts come in fierce hurrying crowds.

IV.

Nor art thou happy; — to thy heart still clings
Oppressive care with an untiring zeal —
Nor can Love's hand avert or heal her stings.
— But droop not yet, thou girl of bosom leal,
And mind aspiring! — better 'tis to feel
These sorrows, and survive their wounds, than know
The idiot-indolence of joyous weal —
The poisoned streams from Pleasure's fount that flow
For all who are untaught by honorable woe.