Classic Poem

Thou dost not love me, Myra, now,
Thine icy looks too plainly tell;
I cannot bear this alter'd brow
In one whom I have lov'd so well.
The eye that once was glowing bright,
Whene'er to me its glances turn'd,
Now beams with chill and quiet light,
As if with love it ne'er had burn'd.

This heart was form'd in passion's mould,
And cannot thus at once resign
Its fondest hopes — and grow so cold,
So pulseless, passionless as thine:
I might have borne to see thee die;
But cannot brook a death like this,
Of hopes with which my heart throbb'd high,
Of all in life that promised bliss.

They tell me that thou soon wilt wed,
That thou wilt be another's bride —
I'd rather far we both were dead,
And calmly sleeping, side by side!
Oh! can it be our vows of yore
So soon have been forgot by thee,
When in each other's arms we swore
Eternal love — Oh! can it be!

Away! away! thou'rt false as fair!
I'll rend thine image from my heart,
Too long, too fondly cherish'd there —
But now we part, forever part!
I'll seek once more the stormy main,
I'd rather trust its changeful brow,
Than list to woman's tongue again,
At least to one so false as thou!