Classic Poem

A SCEND , my Muse, on sorrow's sable plume,
Let the soft number meet the swelling sigh;
With laureated chaplets deck the tomb,
The blood-stained tomb where Smith and comfort lie.

I loved him with a brother's ardent love,
Beyond the love which tenderest brothers bear;
Though savage kindred bosoms cannot move,
Friendship shall deck his urn and pay the tear.

Despised, an alien to thy father's breast,
Thy ready services repaid with hate;
By brother, father, sisters, all distressed,
They pushed thee on to death, they urged thy fate.

Ye callous-breasted brutes in human form,
Have you not often boldly wished him dead?
He's gone, ere yet his fire of man was warm,
O may his crying blood be on your head!