Classic Poem

Yes, these are the features already imprest
So deep by the pencil of Love on my heart;
Within their reflection they find in this breast,
Yet something is wanting—Ah where is the art
That to painting so true can that something impart?

Oh where is the sweetness that dwelt on that lip?
And where is the smile that enchanted my soul?
From those roses no sweet dew of Love can I sip,
Nor meet the soft glance that with magic controul
O'er the chords of my heart so bewitchingly stole.

Cold, cold is that eye unimpassioned its beams,
They speak not of tenderness Love or delight!
Oh where is the heart-thrilling rapture that-streams
From the heavenly blue of that circle so bright
That sunshine of pleasure which gladdened my sight.

Yet come to my bosom oh image adored!
And sure thou shalt feel the soft flame of my heart,
The glow sympathetic once more be restored
Once more it shall warm thee, ah cold as thou art,
And to charms so beloved its own feelings impart.

Oh come and while others his form may behold
And he on another with fondness may smile;
To thee shall my wrongs, shall my sorrows be told,
And the kiss I may give thee those sorrows the while
Like the memory of joys which are past shall beguile!