Classic Poem

No more my Lord with Pleasure I expect,
Your friendly Aid my Weakness to protect.
Lost to those Transports you have oft inspired,
And every Happiness my Soul desir'd;
Oh, where for Succour, whither shall I fly,
But buried in unheard-of Sorrows die?
The Soul of Pity dwells not in a Slave,
But kind Compassion dignifies the brave.
At Darius ' Woes, great Philip's Warlike Son
Was mov'd, when Conquests and when Toils were done.
Each God like Hero has a tender Part,
And Woes like mine wou'd melt a savage Heart.
E're long my Soul had no Desire in View,
No Hope, or Wish, but that of pleasing you.
One Smile from you could make a rich Amends,
For shatter'd Fortune, and the Loss of Friends;
Esteem'd by you, I could with Ease survey
My Name and Honour, to the World a Prey.
But now no more, I'm ravished with that Voice,
Whose sacred Sound bid Agony rejoice.
The vernal Blooms no longer give me Ease,
Nor painted Violets my Fancy please.
Each Darling Object but elates my Grief,
And Death's cold Hand can only give Relief.
Yet, when Laetitia shall exist no more,
But Dust to Dust, as she must short, restore,
Shed one kind Tear of Pity on her Hearse,
Thou matchless Subject of her latest Verse;
And let no Stone or Marble ever tell
What Woes her Children or herself befell:
But, mixed and covered with forgotten Clay,
Time shall dissolve her Memory away.