Classic Poem

'Tis night — the wretch oppress'd with woes
Forgets his cares in sleep,
While I, a stranger to repose,
Am doom'd to wake and weep.

Though young, how oft I'm call'd to mourn,
Those early snatch'd away,
And weep on love and friendship's urn
The progress of decay.

Scarce time revolving o'er my head
Has mark'd my eighteenth year,
Yet oft the mem'ry of the dead
Has claim'd my early tear.

Alas! between our death and birth
How small a compass lies!
Man, fleeting tenant of the earth,
Is only born and dies.

Soon fades, alas! the brightest bloom,
The fairest form soon wears,
Oft blasted by untimely doom,
Before decay'd by years.

And small is wealth and honour's pow'r,
What most we want to give,
To comfort life's departing hour,
Or bid us longer live.

A voice is utter'd from the tomb,
And nature seems to cry,
Mortal, be wife by others doom,
And learn thyself to die.