Classic Poem

To die is landing on some silent shore,
Where billows never break, nor tempests roar;
Ere well we feel the friendly stroke, 'tis o'er
The wise through thought th' insults of death defy;
The fools through blest insensibility.
'Tis what the guilty fear, the pious crave;
Sought by the wretch, and vanquish'd by the brave:
It eases lovers, sets the captive free,
And, though a tyrant, offers liberty.