Classic Poem

How vain the joys that human pride elate,
Dependent on the slightest chance of fate!
Here all the flatt'ring hopes of youthful bloom
Untimely blasted, wither in the tomb:
Grac'd with each merit years like his could boast,
Too soon discover'd, as too early lost:
Studious by ev'ry pleasing art to prove,
Th' endearing tenderness of silial love,
Which guided still by nature's gentlest voice,
Prepar'd him for that heav'n he now enjoys.
Yet let not grief pronounce that doom unjust,
Which lays a parent's fairest hopes in dust;
The lovely object of these selfish tears,
Felt ev'ry joy of life without it's cares;
To him the world display'd it's first best sight,
And touch'd his infant senses with delight.
What more, alas! had added years to give?
To live for Virtue is alone to live.
And what that Virtue , but with painful art,
To check the strong emotions of the heart;
The hydra forms of folly to subdue,
And strive with passions, which HE never knew?
Heav'n, which the doubtful conflict kindly spar'd,
Without the toil, bestow'd the bright reward:
Death gently call'd him from his guiltless play,
And clos'd his eyes to wake in endless day.
Let grief submit to pow'r all good and wise,
And yield the spotless victim to the skies.