Classic Poem

Could these pure Souls that once are wafted o'er
Thro' Earth's tempestuous Storms to yonder Shore,
Look back and see what Passions fill our Mind,
When they set sail and leave us here behind;
How would they smile to know what Tears we shed,
What Moans and Sighs we vent for them when dead?
'Tis as if they who float along the Main,
Toss'd and retoss'd, but can't the Harbour gain,
Should pity those they saw blown safely o'er,
Free from the Storms, and cast upon the Shore.
Well then, dear Soul, since Death hath been to thee
But a soft easy Leap from Misery,
A sweet Remove from Darkness, Griefs and Pain,
To endless Joy and Bliss, I shan't complain.
No, I shall mourn no more, that cruel Death
Has cut the Thread too scon and stopt thy Breath.
Only allow me to fit by thy Hearse,
And thus in Sable Weed, and mournful Verse,
Employ that Chrystal Juice I should have wept for thee,
To write in briny Tears this mournful Elegy.
Ye Sons of Earth, ye Champions for Vice,
That talk of Virtue as an Artifice;
Come here, and see its Power and Beauties too,
And what its pure and native Force can do.
Ye base degen'rate Minds, whom Hell cajols,
To sink in Sense and Flesh your Heav'n-born Souls;
Come learn to give your Love some nobler Flights,
And tune your Passions to Seraphic Heights.
All ye who talk, That Virtue's Force is small,
While we're inclos'd within this Earthen Ball;
Glance o'er these mournful Notes, and they'll display
What Heaven sometimes hath done when lodg'd in Clay.