Classic Poem

I.

Earth does not bear another wretch,
So helpless, so forlorn as I,
Yet not for me a hand will stretch,
And not for me a heart will sigh;
The happy in their happiness,
Will not to woe a thought incline;
The wretched feel a fierce distress,
Too much their own to think of mine,
And few shall be
The tears for me,
When I am lain beneath the tree.

II.

There was a time when joy ran high,
And every sadder thought was weak,
Tears did not always dim this eye,
Or sorrow always stain this cheek;
And even now I often dream,
When sunk in feverish broken sleep,
Of things that were, and things that seem,
And friends that love, then wake to weep
That few must be
The tears for me,
When I am lain beneath the tree.

III.

Travellers lament the clouded skies,
The moralist the ruined hall,
And when th' unconscious lily dies,
How many mark and mourn its fall.
But I — no dirge for me will ring,
No stone will mark my lowly spot,
I am a suffering, withering thing,
Just seen, and slighted, and forgot,
And few shall be
The tears for me,
When I am lain beneath the tree.

IV.

Yet welcome hour of parting breath,
Come sure unerring dart — there's room
For sorrow in the arms of death,
For disappointment in the tomb:
What tho' the slumbers there be deep,
Tho' not by kind remembrance blest,
To slumber is to cease to weep,
To sleep forgotten is to rest;
Oh! sound shall be
The rest for me,
When I am lain beneath the tree.