Classic Poem

Another of my wasted years has gone
And brought me nearer — nothing but the grave
And thus they wax and wane; and one by one
Leave — as they found me — Melancholy's slave.

Each stamps it's wrinkles deeper on my brow
Each sheds it's frost upon my scattered hair
And those who knew me once, and see me now
Speak of me as among " the things that were. "

I've watched thro' night 'till dawn — the lingering sun
It is my Fortieth Sun — at length appears!
And seems to question me[:] " What hast thou done
Thro' this long waste of miserable years? "

Ere his Eighth lustre gallant Surrey died
But dying left behind a deathless name.
And hast thou then no honorable pride?
No noble aspirations after fame?

Horace & Virgil Scipio Caesar lit
With Glory ere thy years their sword or page,
And even while thou livedst Napoleon Byron writ
Their brief and burning annals on the age.

" And thou " — Enough! — I know it all — 'tis true!
Wasting my head and heart on love and rhyme
While the irrevocable moments flew. ...
I perish and bequeath no name to Time.