Classic Poem

Shame on the sullen soul, that, for one fault,
One tender fault, will slight the taintless mind;
Still, Z ELIA , thou'rt a vestal in thy thought,
And Love, as he is pictur'd, should be blind;

Then wipe, my dear, those dewy eyes of thine,
That, like a dying dove's, are turn'd on me;
Mine was the rapture, all the sin be mine,
If thou from sorrow, and from sin, art free.

Tho' cruel Custom marr the wanderer's rest,
And thy sweet beauty ill such scorn can bear;
Love, gentlest monitor, unlocks this breast,
And fondly welcomes his old Misstress there.

Let Malice rail, let Scandal be thy foe;
But, sure, that H EAV'N , which drest thee in delight,
Will spare its erring master-piece,—for know,
Had'st thou no stain, thou wert an Angel quite!