Classic Poem

Unto the temple of thy Beauty,
And to the tomb where Pity lies,
I, pilgrim-clad with zeal and duty,
Do offer up my heart, mine eyes.
My heart, lo! in the quenchless fire
On Love's burning altar lies,
Conducted thither by Desire
To be Beauty's sacrifice.

But Pity, on thy sable hearse
Mine eyes the tears of sorrow shed;
What though tears cannot fate reverse,
Yet are they duties to the dead.
O mistress, in thy sanctuary
Why wouldst thou suffer cold Disdain
To use his frozen cruelty,
And gentle Pity to be slain.

Pity that to thy Beauty fled,
And with thy Beauty should have lived,
Ah! in thy heart lies buried,
And never more may be revived.
Yet this last favour, dear, extend,
To accept these vows, these tears I shed,
Duties which I thy pilgrim send
To Beauty living, Pity dead.