Classic Poem

Ah ! what avails — that once the Muses crown'd
Thy head with laurels, and thy temples bound!
That in that polish'd mind bright genius shone,
That letter'd Science mark'd it for her own!
Cold is that breast that breath'd celestial fire!
Mute is that tongue, and mute that tuneful lyre!
O could my Muse but emulate thy lays,
Immortal numbers should record thy praise,
Redeem thy virtues from Oblivion's sleep,
And o'er thy urn bid distant ages weep! —
Yet though no laureat flowers bestrew thy hearse,
Nor pompous sounds exalt the glowing verse,
Sublimer Truth inspires this humbler strain,
Bids Love lament, and Friendship here complain:
Bids o'er thy tomb the Muse her sorrows shed,
And weep her Genius, number'd with the dead! —

ON a sheer peak of joy we meet;
Below us hums the abyss;
Death either way allures our feet
If we take one step amiss.

One moment let us drink the blue
Transcendent air together —
Then down where the same old work's to do
In the same dull daily weather.

We may not wait ... yet look below!
How part? On this keen ridge
But one may pass. They call you — go!
My life shall be your bridge.