Classic Poem

Ye gay and young, who thoughtless of your doom,
Shun the disgustful mansions of the dead,
Where Melancholy broods o'er many a tomb,
Mouldering beneath the yew's unwholesome shade:

If chance ye enter these sequester'd groves,
And day's bright sunshine for a while forego,
Oh! leave to Folly's cheek the laugh and loves,
And give one hour to philosophic woe!

Here, while no titled dust, no sainted bone,
No lover weeping over Beauty's bier,
No warrior frowning in historic stone,
Extorts your praises, or requests your tear;

Cold Contemplation leans her aching head,
On human woe her steady eye she turns,
Waves her meek hand, and sighs for Science dead,
For Science, Virtue, and for Small , she mourns.