Classic Poem

Thou art not dead, my Proté! thou art flown
To a far country better than our own;
Thy home is now an Island of the Blest;
There 'mid Elysian meadows take thy rest:
Or lightly trip along the flowery glade
Rich with the asphodels that never-fade!
Nor pain, nor cold, nor toil shall vex thee more,
Nor thirst, nor hunger on that happy shore;
Nor longings vain (now that blest life is won)
For such poor days as mortals here drag on;
To thee for aye a blameless life is given,
In the pure light of ever-present Heaven!