Classic Poem

Here fair Corinna buri'd lay,
Cloath'd and Lock'd up in silent Clay;
But neighb'ring Shepheards every morn
With constant tears bedew'd her Urn,
Untill with quickning moysture, she
At length grew up into this Tree:
Here now unhappy Lovers meet,
And changing Sighs (for so they greet)
Each one unto some conscious Bough
Relates this Oath, and tels that Vow,
Thinking that she with pittying sounds
Whispers soft Comfort to their Wounds:
When 'tis perhaps some wanton Wind,
That striving passage there to find.
Doth softly move the trembling leaves
Into a voice, and so deceives.
Hither sad Lutes they nightly bring,
And gently touch each querulous string,
Till that with soft-harmonious numbers
They think th' have woo'd her into Slumbers;
As if, the Grave having an Eare,
When dead things speak the dead should hear.
Here no sad Lover, though of Fame,
Is suff'red to engrave his Name,
Lest that the wounding Letters may
Make her thence fade, and pine away:
And so she withering through the pain
May sink into her Grave again.
O why did Fates the Groves uneare?
Why did they envy Wood should hear?
Why, since Dodona 's holy Oake,
Have Trees been dumb, and never spoke;
Now Lovers wounds uncured Lye,
And they wax old in misery;
When, if true sense did quicken Wood,
Perhaps shee'd sweat a Balsom floud,
And knowing what the World endures,
Would weep her moysture into Cures.