Classic Poem

A fleeting life of pain, is man's
Inevitable lot;
To-day is privy to our woe,
To-morrow knows us not

Fate bids a snaky wreathe of care
Entwine the vital thread;
And feel alike it's baneful pow'r,
The death and bridal bed.

Hope gilds in vain the future hour
With bliss of ev'ry kind;
The wishful period wastes away
But bliss we never find.

In vain we strive to ease the smart,
And meditate repose;
In vain assume the face of joy,
The mask of human woes.

Who warring with a sea of ills,
Some weary days have past,
Will ever find the future day
An image of the last.

Till death, no more a tyrant, speed
The amicable blow,
Shut the sad scene of mortal life,
And terminate their woe.

O, happy he! above his peers,
The favourite of heav'n,
To whom a certain place of rest,
An early grave is given.

Nor falling tear, nor swelling sigh,
That mourn an absent maid,
Tormenting fears, nor wishes vain,
Afflict his peaceful shade.

In sure oblivion of his woes,
He moulders into dust;
Spring's roses wither on his grave,
And cheer his hov'ring ghost.