Classic Poem

W HERE'S the tear, that shall destroy
Such a theme of Christian joy?
Tell me, who has clos'd her breath,
But the Saint , that wish'd for death!
Heaven's accompt was bright and clear:
It was pain, that linger'd here;
Though on Life's Autumnal day
Time had shed no common ray,
Yet the generous feel a pain,
Too angelic to complain:
Secret anguish they possess,
Which the selfish cannot guess,
When their charities can say —
" Time, and we, — have " lost a day . "
But her Shade can Love inspire;
She is bless'd — and we admire:
Unpresuming , as the earth,
She was dignified in worth .
Love, to Memory ensur'd,
Pays the debt her life abjur'd;
Love has made the wreath his own,
Cherish'd in the heart alone:
Sacred is the mournful trust;
All its pride is to be just;
For, if Truth is to redeem
From Humility its theme,
Bright is Honour's jealous crown,
In the posthumous renown ,
By the filial tribute sav'd —
By the living Christian wav'd.