Classic Poem

Tread with the soft, slow step of reverence
Above these still apartments of the dead;
Not that the echo of our heav'est tread
Would break Death's slumber. Here Intemperance
Lies dumbly, soberly; th' unreined madness
He revelled and delighted in is spent
And fallen into this melancholy sadness;
The glibsome tongue, whose speech was merriment,
And wit, and poetry, and knowledge, moulders
In the dark hollow of the fleshless jaws;
The ear that drank the poison of Applause
Is deaf, though Fame's voice speaks to it — Beholders.
Of this young grave, it doth become ye sigh
For one who lived so madly — died so miserably!