Classic Poem

A little time thou found'st, O pagan king,
A little space, to murmur and repine:
Oh, bear a few brief months affliction's sting,
And gaze despondent o'er the billowy brine,
And then to the Great Spirit, dimly traced
Through cloud and tempest, and with fear embraced,
In doubt and mystery, thy breath resign;
And to thy scorn'd and perish'd people go,
From whose long-trampled dust our flowers and herbage grow.