Classic Poem

Mourn all ye Loves! ye Graces mourn!
My Lesbia's fav'rite sparrow's gone!
Ye men for wit, for taste, preferr'd,
Lament my girl's departed bird!
That sparrow, than her eyes more dear,
Which oft has charm'd her list'ning ear;
Which knew her, as the infant knows
The breast, from whence its being flows;
Which, hopping in amusive sport,
At her lov'd side would pay its court;
And, seated on her bosom's throne,
Would pipe to her, and her alone:
Poor bird! who now that darksome bourn
Hast pass'd, whence none can e'er return:
Perish ye shades of Stygian gloom,
Which all that's elegant consume!
'Twas you, detested be the day!
Who snatch'd our charming bird away;
O hapless bird! o fatal deed!
That makes my Lesbia's bosom bleed;
And, her eyes swoll'n with many a tear,
Bids the red streak of grief appear.