Classic Poem

O weep and wail—there is no shame in weeping.
What bounds can measure grief for one so dear?
Melpomene, arise, thy wild harp sweeping
And teach me songs of sadness and the bier.

And does Quintilius sleep eternal slumbers?
O Justice, pious Modesty, and Fear—
Intrepid Truth, though Life has valiant numbers,
When shall ye ever hope to find his peer?

Aye, though he died, amid a throng lamentous,
By none, my Virgil, better wept than you,
In vain you ask him back; he was not lent us
On any terms but what the gods endue.

Aye, though you strike the lyre with wilder sobbing
And sweeter sighs than Orpheus of Thrace,
You cannot set one drop of life-blood throbbing
Or bring one blush to that poor, pallid face.

For Mercury, impervious to stations,
Cannot reverse the fates that placed him there;
And though the blow is deep, 'twill heal with patience.
For what we cannot change we learn to bear.