Classic Poem

Ah me! vile Interest every bosom stains,
From mighty Monarchs down to simple Swains;
No more alas! to palaces confin'd,
But reigns unbounded in the Peasant's mind;
Be then this age pronounc'd the age of gold,
Since even Happiness for pelf is sold:
But thou, ignoble wretch, who first essay'd
To charm by sordid arts the venal maid;
Taught the young breast on hopes of gain to rove,
(Fair Faith neglected, and unspotted Love)
Eternal curses blast thy hated name,
Thou bane of life, of human kind the shame;
For thee no friend a monument shall rear;
For thee, ne'er heave the sigh, ne'er drop the tear;
To soothe thy ghost, ne'er shall the lyre be strung;
Ne'er shall thy name disgrace the Poet's song:
When to the turf where thy pale reliques lye,
Some neighbouring swain shall guide the wand'ring eye,
Inform the traveller what vile remains,
What hated dust, th' unhallow'd spot contains;
No honours to thy memory shall he pay,
No peaceful requiem for the manes say.
Nipt by the blasts of pestilential air,
Ne'er shall the rural verdure flourish there,
But horrid winter stretch it's dread domain,
And storms eternal desolate the plain,
'Twas Avarice first inverted Nature's plan,
And chang'd the happiness design'd for man,
Meanly corrupted Love's sublimer fires,
And sully'd all the joys of soft desires:
But mankind still with horror shall behold
The maid who prostitutes her heart for gold.