Classic Poem

If the soft language of a bleeding heart
Can verses worthy of your ear impart;
Describe my passion with an ardent zeal,
And paint in lively colours what I feel;
These tender lines could never fail to move
Your soul to melt with sympathetic love.

How vain that hope! What numbers can prevail?
E'en Jove , without a golden show'r, would fail:
Except some guardian God your mind directs
To rise above the trifles of your sex,
And, like Ithuriel 's spear, with touch refine
The sordid passion from the flame divine.
When dawning nature, in your infant state,
Unveil'd those charms which on your person wait,
My bosom kindled with a secret flame,
And my heart panted, when I heard your name:
Still with increasing years my passion grew,
And glow'd with rapture at the fight of you.

The lavisn praise of beauty you disdain,
That fading glory of the female train:
Let the vain creatures triumph in their charms,
Who never please, but in their lovers arms;
No other shining qualities can boast,
But just that white and red which makes a toast.
Such fond pursuits, your early reason taught,
Were splendid toys, unworthy of a thought:
Ambition made you act a nobler part,
To polish nature, and correct the heart;
To cultivate each virtue of the mind,
And prove the pattern of the female kind.
Oft have I wander'd in the gloomy shade,
Bless'd with thy lively converse, — charming maid:
When my soul languish'd to reveal my love,
(How vain my boasted resolutions prove!)
Too soon the trembling accents dy'd away,
Nor would my fault'ring tongue my heart obey.
What various passions in my bosom roll?
Fear, hope, despair, by turns invade my soul:
My sanguine wishes flatter each desire,
And little Cupids fan the raging fire.
But soon another scene my fancy draws
Of noble youths, whose fortune pleads their cause:
The splendid equipage, the pomp of state,
And all the dazzling glories of the great,
Are objects which sollicit every sense:
And female virtue is a weak defence.

What can Lucinda in my person see,
To slight the fashionable world for me,
Whose only merit is to love the fair,
Whose virtues make me languish in despair?
If all my fond suspicions idle prove,
And your breast kindle with a mutual love;
The study of my life shall be to please
The charming fair, who gave me wealth and ease:
Who scorn'd the servile praise of all mankind,
For him, who deems the virtues of the mind
Above the splendid gifts which fortune gave,
Or beauty, to confirm the world your slave.

But if some happy rival's planet shine,
Auspicious to your wish, with rays divine;
Conceal this fatal secret in your breast,
And with each other live, for ever blest!
Still in your friendship let me bear a part,
And give me your esteem without your heart.