Classic Poem

But ah! too soon, that smallest Comfort fled,
The vital Pow'rs no more defend,
Their noble Seat the Head.
Slowly, the Crimson Flood rolls, on,
And stagnates as it goes;
Too fast, the Silver Lymph does run,
And all the Brain o'erflows.
Thus have we known a Tyrant Prince,
In Peace, a Fort surprize:
The Foes unlook'd for, seize the Wall,
The Garrison o'er-number'd Fall,
A silent Sacrifice.