Classic Poem

Since , first, soft Passion could this breast enflame,
Oh! Love ! I've own'd the rigor of thy rule;
Still to thy shrine, with bleeding heart, I came,
And Prudence pointed oft the am'rous fool;

'Tis past: — and ah! tho', with thy pow'r, are flown
Innum'rous pangs, that wrung my tortur'd soul,
Joy, too, is fled, sweet raptures all thy own,
That gild the chains of such severe controul.

Where, now, the fond concern? the blissful dream?
The glad surprize, that purpled o'er my cheek?
The sprightly hope, that from my eye would gleam?
The throbbing wish, that language could not speak?

In liberty I pine, condemn'd to see
A barren waste, so wretched, tho' so free!