Classic Poem

My heart is sad, my harp is still,
It hangs upon the willow-tree;
No hand shall wake its lively trill,
No strain shall e'er enliven me.

The serpent care has stung my heart,
And left his venom in my soul;
No balm can heal the cruel smart,
No hand my bosom's pangs control.

No,—I must sit me down and die:
Far better, far—to die, than live;
For death is but a pang and sigh,
And what can life beside them give?

Far better, far—to close our eyes,
And slumber in the dust below;
In peace the toil-worn sufferer lies,
In death he found his kindest foe.

Then let me dry my tears, and wake
My harp to some funereal strain,
Then all its chords of sweetness break,
And seek the silent grave again.