Classic Poem

What can abash the mournful strains,
Or bounds prescribe to grief, like this,
For those most precious dear remains,
Of which we have so great a miss?
Melpomene, do thou the dirge inspire,
To whom Jove gave the liquid voice and lyre.
Has then eternal sleep possess'd
Quintilius, mod'rate, just and kind,
Where shall our grievance be redress'd,
Or where will ye his equal find,
O modesty, and faith, the fair allies
Of justice, and the truth without disguise?
— An object of exceeding grief
To many, virtuous, did he fall —
But thou, O Virgil, art the chief,
More inconsolable than all —
In vain, alas! you to the Gods resent
Him, who was not on such conditions lent.
What tho' your own majestic lays
Shou'd, sweeter far than Orpheus' lyre,
Give ears to laurels and to bays,
You cou'd not make his corpse respire,
Or bid the blood in that cold image flow,
Which Mercury, the minister below,
Has to the gloomy crowd compell'd,
In locking up the doors of fate,
Nor will he be by pray'r withheld,
However musical and great —
'Tis hard — but manly patience must endure,
And make things lighter, that admit no cure.