Classic Poem

  E. I N some lone cemetery,
Distant from towns, (some wild wood-girded spot,
Ruin'd and full of graves, all very old,
Over whose scarce-seen mounds the pine tree sheds
Its solemn fruit, as giving dust to dust,)
He sleeps in quiet. Had he no friend? Oh! yes:
Pity which hates all noise, and Sorrow, like
The enamouring marble that wraps virgin mould,
And palest Silence, who will weep alone,
And all sad friends of Death, were friends to him!