Classic Poem

How oft we view without a sigh,
A year eventless pass us by;
As if we thought the wings of Time
By heaven were given to us alone,
To waft us to some sweeter clime,
Or some soft love-illumin'd zone.

Our morn of life alone gives birth
To folly, or ephemeral mirth;
And months and years roll on, when soon
Man gains his azimuth of life;
But fleetly sets that cloudless noon
In Pleasure's sea, or Folly's strife.

Why tell the rest?—He fleetly dies;
While relatives, with tearful eyes,
And hearts o'erfraught with woe and gloom,
Bend o'er, and dire libation give,
And place a statue-weeping tomb
O'er him who knew not how to live.

Folly shall steal forth from her bower,
At noon's congenial noisy hour,
And calling Wit, in sportive jeer,
Shall tell him with triumphant laugh,
“A son of mine lies sleeping here,
“And Wit must write his epitaph.”

Then Wit his shining pen shall trace
Upon the snow-white marble's face,
And write, ‘Here slumbers Folly's child,—
‘And were just half the world to fall,
‘And be in lots compactly pil'd,
‘The line, I think, would serve for all.’