Classic Poem

T HE gentlest bosom Virtue ever sway'd,
And Virtue in a lovely form array'd,
Is wrapt in mouldering earth, and silent gloom,
Till Saints redeem their Sister from the tomb.
Flow, precious tears! — the soothing hand attest,
That spar'd the feelings of the heart it bless'd!
Record, bright Faith, a pure and spotless mind,
In hope unweary'd, and in pain resign'd!
But most, ye melting sympathies, deplore
Two undivided hearts, that beat no more!
The lamp of Hymen waited for its hour,
And smiling Angels had prepar'd the bower;
When both at once, in blooming Nature's pride,
Felt the envenom'd arrow at their side:
Yet weep no more! it is their night of rest —
The Morning-star shall find them wak'd, and bless'd.