Classic Poem

Mortal, whoe'er Thou art, beware, — since Time
To the Thatch'd Hovel, to the Trophied Arch
Levels alike his undiscerning Scythe;
And Death , wide-sweeping, no Distinction owes
To the crown'd Villain. All alike in Hell.
Caligula and Chartres , seated both
On burning Couches in the fiery Hall.

Whence is that milder Blaze, of Æther pure,
As op'ning Clouds a Scenary Divine
Unfold? Where brightest in her Robe of Sky
Sits Virtue under Shade of Palm; with look
Serene, but stern: Herculean Strength behind
Waiting, and trampled Worlds beneath her Feet.
Nearest her Throne, Associates ever dear,
(Not sullen Cato , not th' unfriendly Stroke
Of Brutus , much less Caesar's lawrel'd Pride)
Epaminondas smiling at his Blood,
For his dear Thebans as it streaming ran,
Warrior benign: Here Antonine the Just,
The Wise, the Humble, with his Sceptre low
In Homage to the Queen: And Nerva there,
Humanity Imperial! pleas'd in Death,
An Heir adopting, who shall bless Mankind.
All the choice Few, Union of Great and Good;
Poor Epictetus , with his Free-born Soul:
More's chearful Wisdom, Boyle with Study wan,
Beneficent, and meek; th' Athenian Sage,
And Indian , in abstruse Discourse sublime
Of the first Good, — their Eyes turn'd up to Heav'n.
Gather'd around, and pick'd from all the World,
The shielded Saint rejoices in her Sons.