Classic Poem

Ill-fated youth! hard was thy lot below;
How few thy years! yet, ah! how full of woe!
How might thy genius have adorn'd our race!
How thy misfortunes ever must disgrace!
Just in its gifts to all, impartial heav'n
To thee had greatest good and evil giv'n,
From common mortals not distinguish'd less
By mind, than fate, by talents, than distress:
Wond'rous, but hapless boy, to thee we owe
Whate'er admiring pity can bestow.
Small were thy claims, but ev'n these claims deny'd,
Thy mind indignant spurn'd its lot, and dy'd;
Resolv'd at once the worst of fate to brave,
And seek from want a refuge in the grave.
What though, unhappy boy! thy sad remains
No rites attend, no hallow'd ground contains,
Yet pity shall bewail thy hapless doom,
And genius consecrate thy early tomb,
They, whose neglect destroy'd thee, now too late,
Shall praise thy merit, and lament thy fate.