Classic Poem

Groans rise on griefs, oh Pericles! nor they
Who feed the woe, in wine or feast are gay.
The billow of the many-roaring deep
Has borne these pleasures in its whelming sweep.
Our grief-swollen hearts, now, draw their breath in pain;
Yet blessings, oh my friend! shall smile again.
The gods reserve for seeming-cureless woe
A balm, and antidotes on grief bestow.
In turn the cure and suffering take their round,
And we now groaning feel the bleeding wound:
Now other breasts the shifting tortures know;
Endure, nor droop thus womanish in woe.