Classic Poem

When youth and beauty seek their native skies,
Call'd from endearments of maternal love;
The tear will start, the deep drawn sigh will rise,
And agony the throbbing bosom move.

For tho' assur'd another, better world,
Claims the blest spirit round our heart-strings bound;
Yet poor humanity, to misery hurl'd,
Can but lament, and feel the deadly wound!

For who, connected with a being dear,
All excellence, accomplishments, and worth,
Can stay the madding retrospective tear,
And not regret its early call from earth?

Memory will conjure up the form so fair,
Each brilliant talent, and bewitching charm;
Each soft, insinuating, graceful air,
The sprightly fancy, and affections warm.

On these remembrance cannot fail to dwell,
In varying succession as they rise;
The breast with painful, pleasing throbs will swell,
And half accuse the mandate of the skies.

Pardon the bard, who thus obtrusive sings,
His plaintful eulogy to A NNE'S sad urn,
He knows each feeling which the bosom wrings,
When the heart's treasure never can return.

But there are sweet consoling comforts still,
Much to alleviate the dreadful blow!
That those we weep were guileless, free from ill,
Made to adorn this life! and fit to go.

That man's brief day cannot be cloudless through;
That death but separates us for a while;
That happiness is their's, who rightly do,
And joyous can look inward with a smile.

Such, and the consolations which the wise
Can never, never fail to have, be yours;
For that which rais'd the daughter to the skies,
The weeping mother's peace on earth secures.