Classic Poem

The waving yew or cypress wreath
In vain bequeathe the mighty tear;
In vain the awful pomp of death
Attends the sable-shrouded bier.

Since Strephon's virtue's sunk to rest,
Nor pity's sigh nor sorrow's strain,
Nor magic tongue, have e'er confest
Our wounded bosom's secret pain.

The just, the good, more honours share
In what the conscious heart bestows,
Than voice adorn'd with sculptor's care,
In all the venal pomp of woes.

A sad-ey'd mourner at his tomb,
Thou, Friendship! pay thy rites divine,
And echo thro' the midnight gloom
That Strephon's early fall was thine.