Classic Poem

Thy bloom is soft, thine eyes are bright,
And rose-buds are thy lips, my Fanny,
Thy glossy hair is rich with light,
Thy form unparagon'd by any;
But thine is not the brief array
Of charms which time is sure to borrow,
Which accident may blight to-day,
Or sickness undermine to-morrow

No—thine is that immortal grace
Which ne'er shall pass from. thy possession,
That moral beauty of the face
Which constitutes its sweet expression;
This shall preserve thee what thou art,
When age thy blooming tints has shaded,
For while thy looks reflect thy heart,
How can their charms be ever faded?

Nor, Fanny, can a love like mine
With time decay, in sickness falter;
'Tis like thy beauty—half divine,
Born of the soul, and cannot alter:
For when the body's mortal doom
Our earthly pilgrimage shall sever,
Our spirits shall their loves resume,
United in the skies for ever.