Classic Poem

And shall thy tuneful throat no more,
Sweet bird, its artless music pour,
When morn unlocks her lucid store,
Or evening leads her milder hour.

And shalt thou now, with pride elate,
No more thy golden plumes array;
Or, fluttering through thy cruel grate,
In mimic anger fondly play.

Ah! now thy breast no longer glows,
To hear thy oft repeated name;
No more thy hovering wings disclose
The transports of thy little frame.

Henceforth to soothe the sullen ear
Of death, in vain shall music try;
Nor mirth his gloomy heart shall cheer,
Nor beauty charm his wayward eye.

For mirth and beauty both were thine,
And sweetest music from thee flow'd;
Yet here the mournful wreath we twine,
That decks thy long and last abode.

And shall thy tuneful throat no more,
Sweet bird, its artless music pour,
When morn unlocks her lucid store,
Or evening leads her milder hour.

And shalt thou now, with pride elate,
No more thy golden plumes array;
Or, fluttering through thy cruel grate,
In mimic anger fondly play.

Ah! now thy breast no longer glows,
To hear thy oft repeated name;
No more thy hovering wings disclose
The transports of thy little frame.

Henceforth to soothe the sullen ear
Of death, in vain shall music try;
Nor mirth his gloomy heart shall cheer,
Nor beauty charm his wayward eye.

For mirth and beauty both were thine,
And sweetest music from thee flow'd;
Yet here the mournful wreath we twine,
That decks thy long and last abode.