Classic Poem

Were I to-morrow , and perhaps to-day ,
Or in the circle of a passing hour ,
My leaves torn off, and pluck'd the vital flower,
To sink, bereft of thee; — before the ray
Of those enchanting smiles again should play
Upon the wreath it lov'd — or fury's power,
Impatient of controul, could, in the bower
Of sympathy new born, resign its prey,
Disarm'd of scorn, that, with averted eye,
Pierc'd in its flight, as from the Parthian bow; —
Say, could the tear of anguish be withheld
From insult on its throne — when, passing by,
The dirge instructs the harp its theme to know,
And wakes the note again to Love impell'd.