Classic Poem

Just when the hurrying dream of life is o'er,
And Death, grim monarch, beckons to his shore,
Our waken'd senses view, with sad dismay,
Their idle phantoms thro' the mazy way.
And if indulgent Heav'n our span extends,
His restless darts can wound us thro' our friends;
Or when the great, whose talents largely giv'n,
Proclaim them stewards of the gifts of Heav'n,
Yield up their all to man's relentless foe,
Appall'd we mourn th' inevitable blow.

Long noble B EDFORD , pinnacl'd on high,
Soar'd like a tow'ring eagle thro' the sky;
By birth illustrious, wealth and titles bore,
But now the gaily-gilded scene is o'er;
And even while Fortune, with her choicest gales,
With freshest breezes, fill'd his swelling sails,
Still bitterest trials mark'd the varied plan,
And taught the feeling mortal he was man.
While party-bigots strove to blast his fame,
Dark Envy's shafts in baleful myriads came;
Not one humane, one gen'rous deed reveal'd,
His acts misconstru'd, and his worth conceal'd:
Yet slight these wounds, to what the fire must bear,
When bleeding nature barr'd the struggling tear;
When a lov'd son, his own, his country's pride,
In youth, in blooming virtue, timeless dy'd,
When his fair faithful mate, with woes o'erprest,
Flew to her much-lov'd lord in search of rest;
These, noble B EDFORD , were as lessons given,
Thy soul to wean from earth and wing to heaven:
Obedience taught, thou didst thy God adore,
And full of steady faith his will explore;
Serene, in death, thy feeble voice couldst raise,
And tune, in parting strains, thy Maker's praise:
Here Envy's self approves the friendly tear,
And owns her keenest darts are blunted here.