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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

ELEGY (2), by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: How was I blest when I was free
Last Line: Since I'm so worthless, she so fair.


How was I blest when I was free
From mercy, and from cruelty;
When I could write of Love at ease,
And guess at passions in my peace;
When I could sleep, and in my breast
No lovesick thoughts disturb'd my rest:
When in my brain of her sweet face
No torturing idea was,
Not planet-struck with her eyes' light,
But blest with thoughts as calm as night!
Now I could sit and gaze to Death;
And vanish with each sigh, I breath:
Or else in her victorious eye
Dissolve to tears, dissolving die.
Nor is my life more pleasant than
The minutes of condemned men,
Toss'd by strange fancies, wracked by fears,
Sunk by despair, and drown'd in tears,
And dead to Hope; for, what bold He
Dares hope for such a bliss as she?
And yet I am in love; ah! who
That ever saw her, was not so?
What tiger's unrelenting seed,
Can see such beauties, and not bleed?
Her eyes two sparks of heavenly fire,
To kindle, and to charm desire,
Her cheeks Aurora's blush, her skin
So delicately smooth, and thin,
That you may see each azure vein,
Her bosom's snowy whiteness stain:
But with so rich a tincture, as
China 'bove baser metals has;
She's crowned with unresisted light
Of blooming youth, and vigorous sprite,
Careless charms, unstudied sweetness,
Innate virtue, humble greatness,
And modest freedom, with each grace
Of body, and of mind, and face,
So pure, that men, nor Gods can find
Throughout that body, or that mind
A fault, but this, to disapprove,
She cannot, or she will not love.
Ah! then some God possess her heart
With mine incessant vows, and smart,
Grant but one hour that she may be
In love, and then she'll pity me.
Is it not pity such a guest
As Cruelty, should arm that breast
Against a love assaults it so?
Can heavenly minds such rigour know?
Then make her know, her beauties must
Decay, and moulder into dust:
That each swift atom of her glass,
Runs to the ruin of her face;
That those fair blossoms of her youth,
Are not so lasting as my truth,
My lasting firm integrity:
Tell her all this, and, if there be
A lesson to present her sense
Of more persuading eloquence,
Teach her that too, for all will prove
Too little to provoke her love.
Thus dying people use to rave,
And I am grown my passion's slave;
For fall I must, my lot's despair,
Since I'm so worthless, she so fair.





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