Classic Poem

They dread no storm that lowers,
No perish'd joys bewail;
They pluck no thorn-clad flowers,
Nor drink of streams that fail:
There is no tear-drop in their eye,
No change upon their brow;
Their placid bosom heaves no sigh
Though all earth's idols bow.

Who are so greatly blest?
From whom hath sorrow fled?
Who share such deep, unbroken rest
Where all things toil? The dead!
The holy dead. Why weep ye so
Above yon sable bier?
Thrice blessed! they have done with wo,
The living claim the tear.

Go to their sleeping bowers,
Deck their low couch of clay
With earliest spring's soft breathing flowers;
And when they fade away,
Think of the amaranthine wreath,
The garlands never dim,
And tell me why thou fly'st from death,
Or hid'st thy friends from him.

We dream, but they awake;
Dread visions mar our rest;
Through thorns and snares our way we take,
And yet we mourn the blest!
For spirits round the Eternal Throne
How vain the tears we shed!
They are the living, they alone,
Whom thus we call the dead .