Classic Poem

And cannot, Russel, Taste and Genius save
From fates too cruel and an early tomb?
Ah, no! with blind unpitying rage they doom
The dull, the wise, th' ignoble, and the brave.
All in those realms the last fond duty crave,
Where no glad mornings break the chearless gloom,
Where glows the bosom with no vernal bloom,
In the lone darkness of the silent grave.
Thy course is finish'd: all the world's vain cares
Are but a blank to thee, whose bosom knows
Joy, Sorrow, Hope, Regret, or Fear, no more:
Yet still the sun with equal splendor glows,
And still mankind a smile as chearful wears,
As that thy gay good-humour wak'd before.