Classic Poem

Worn out with unavailing care,
Ah! whither shall I turn!
No other rest remains for me,
But in the peaceful urn.

Nor pride, nor folly will insult
The tenant of the tomb;
Those, whose neglect abridg'd my life,
Perhaps will mourn my doom.

Perhaps my Delia will shed
A tear upon my grave,
And give that pity, when I'm dead,
She ne'er, when living, gave.

Dry up the unavailing tear,
And mourn no more for me,
My troubles were unpitied here,
I'm now from trouble free.

But learn, ah learn, to lay aside
To others thy disdain,
And share the bliss to me deny'd
With some more happy swain.