Classic Poem

Ye, who with buoyant spirits blessed
And rich in vigour want not rest,
Look on this slighted seat--repose
From thoughtless joy and sigh for those
Who, bowed with age or sickness, greet
With thankfulness this timely seat;
And well admonished ponder here
On the last resting place so near
To you. Though Time his prey yet spares,
Your fervid blood shall be as theirs;
Your motion light, your spirits high,
Shall turn to feeble, cold, and dry.
Then go with watchful care, sustain
The languid steps of age and pain;
The thorny bed of sickness smooth;
So shall ye give new joys to youth,
And for your future selves prepare,
Through every change of years and care,
That rest which Virtue still must know,
And only Virtue can bestow.