Classic Poem

Ah ! what avails the Master's Art,
Which strews fresh laurels o'er the brave?
Can Genius blunt Affliction's dart,
Or snatch one blossom from the grave?

Could dews the blasted flow'r restore,
Or Sorrow's voice the past recall;
The feeling heart should bleed no more,
No more the drops of Anguish fall!

Could Pity's sympathising groan
Re-animate the beauteous clay;
Restore the rose for ever flown,
Or stop the Spirit on its way;

Then Science for her favour'd Son
Would wrap in weeds her mourning head,
And pomp and gaudy triumph shun,
To bid the grave give up her dead.

To Life, perhaps to future woe,
Which rests in her untimely urn,
To all the pangs which laid her low,
The smiling Cherub should return!

Now rob'd in Innocence divine,
She soars to gain her native home;
And there shall pure and spotless shine,
And there with sister-seraphs roam:

There now in Amaranthine bow'rs,
She tunes to joy her little song:
And holy rapture marks the hours,
All radiant as they glide along:

Or, watching o'er maternal woe,
Imparts soft comfort to the breast;
Or forms to deck her parent's brow,
The destin'd Chaplet of the blest.

Perhaps, to hail their future doom,
The Spirit may expectant stray
Beyond the terrours of the tomb,
To guide their everlasting way.

Yet sacred to the feeling Soul,
Are now the tender tears that flow;
Tears which no reason can controul,
The sad resource of human woe.

Still, tho' remote, to future peace,
Let Hope direct the weeping eye;
And point to joys that never cease,
And worlds where never heaves a sigh.