Classic Poem

At least, ye Nine! her spotless name
'Tis yours from death to save,
And in the temple of immortal Fame
With golden characters her worth engrave.
Come then, ye Virgin Sisters! come,
And strew with choicest slow'rs her hallow'd tomb;
But foremost thou, in sable vestment clad,
With accents sweet and sad,
Thou, plaintive Muse! whom o'er his Laura's urn
Unhappy Petrarch call'd to mourn,
O come! and to this fairer Laura pay
A more impassion'd tear, a more pathetick lay.