Classic Poem

Love scared thee not, for early thy heart ripened;
His was thy trust, and now thou mourn'st alone.
O hapless, hopeless prey of lies and passion,
Burst thou their net, and fear not any blame!

The blame of men, their feigned reprobation,
Heed not, nor weep, but clear thy clouded eyes.
Not I thy judge, thy headsman, though I know it
That with a laugh malice thy doom has signed.

Has not each one of us been passion's plaything?
Will nought but death assuage thine enemies' scorn?
Will e'en thy friends not cease thy soul to torture?
Feed not the fire, and malice self must die.

And all that in thee was of pure, of holy,
Of dear, shall sacred be to those that love thee,
And rich as ever shall thy generous heart be,
And thou shalt love as erst and, loving, smile.