Classic Poem

How pleasant is the memory
Of those who die in early youth,
With minds from guilt and error free,
The shrines of innocence and truth.

Long shall affection's bosom swell
At the remembrance of their name:
And oft with warm emotions dwell
On their untainted virtuous fame.

Oh! they are blest, belov'd of heaven
How soon their mortal race is run!
How few their sins to be forgiv'n,
How quickly virtue's prize they won!

Remov'd from all the snares of life,
Ere strong temptations try the heart,
Escap'd the warfare and the strife
Betwixt the worse and better part.

Their humble hope unaw'd by fear,
When on the bed of death they lie:
The happiest lot of mortals here,
Is, thus to live—thus soon to die.