Classic Poem

Why does the Sun in usual splendor rise
To pain, with hated light, my aching eyes?—
Let sable clouds inshroud his shining face,
And murmuring winds re-echo my distress;
Be Nature's beauty with sad glooms o'erspread,
To mourn my Lucius number'd with the dead.
  Mute is that tongue which listening senates charm'd,
Cold is that breast which every virtue warm'd.
Drop fast my tears, and mitigate my woe:
Unlock your springs, and never cease to flow:
For worth like his demands this heart-felt grief,
And drops like these can only yield relief.
  O! greatly honour'd in the lists of fame!
He dignified the judge's , statesman's name!
How ably he discharg'd each publick trust,
In counsel firm, in executing just,
Can best be utter'd by his country's voice.
Whose approbation justified their choice.
And now their grateful tears shed o'er his hearse,
A nobler tribute yield, than loftiest verse.
  But ah! lamented shade! thy private life,
(Thy weeping children, thy afflicted wife
Can testify) was mark'd with every grace
That e'er illumin'd or adorn'd the place
Of husband, father, brother, master, friend ,
And swell those sorrows now which ne'er shall end.
  Can we forget how patiently he bore
The various conflicts of the trying hour ;
While meekness, faith , and piety refin'd,
And steadfast hope rais'd his exalted mind
Above the sufferings of this mortal state,
And help'd his soul in smiles to meet her fate?
O fatal hour! severely felt by me—
The last of earthly joy my eyes shall see!
The friend, the lover , every tender name
Torn from my heart, the deepest anguish claim.
Drop fast my tears, and mitigate my woe:
Unlock your springs, and never cease to flow:
For worth like his demands this heart-felt grief,
And drops like these can only yield relief.
To me in vain shall chearful spring return,
And tuneful birds salute the purple morn.
Autumn in vain present me all her stores;
Or summer court me with her fragrant bowers—
Those fragrant bowers were planted by his hand!
And now neglected and unprun'd must stand.
  Ye stately elms and lofty cedars mourn!
Slow through your avenues you saw him borne,
The friend who rear'd you, never to return.
  Ye muses! whom he lov'd and cherish'd too,
Bring from your groves the cypress and the yew,
Deck, with unfading wreaths, his sacred tomb,
And scatter roses of immortal bloom.
  Goddess of sorrow! tune each mournful air;
Let all things pay the tributary tear;
For worth like his demands this heart-felt grief,
And tears alone can yield a sad relief.