Classic Poem

This was thine earthly portion,
To live by grief subdued;
Thyself hast thou expended
As every poet should.

The Muses, at thy cradle,
Thy destiny implied,
And kept thy mouth devoted
To songs—and naught beside.

Thy mother died full early;
This mournful loss expressed
Thou shouldst derive thy vigour
From no mere mortal breast.

The world with all the treasures
Its wealth could e'er produce,
Was thine—for thee to gaze on,
But kept for others' use.

The spring thy life might quicken,
Its buds thy dream might be;
Another pressed the vintage,
Another stripped the tree.

Thou hast on days unnumbered
Upturned thy water-cruse,
While round the festive table
Thy strains would mirth infuse.

E'en here thou wert in glory,
And scarcely more than soul;
Now liv'st thou 'mongst immortals
Where nectar crowns the bowl.

Be to the churchyard carried
What seems thy corse to be;
Thou'lt press the earth but lightly,
May earth lie light on thee!