Classic Poem

Sad spot! which melancholy yews o'ershade,
Where oft the Matron weeps her blooming race
Faded too soon; and where with ling'ring pace
Moves the pale Friend, in sable weeds array'd:
Fill'd with remembrance of a peerless maid,
I come to scatter roses o'er the place,
And muse on those sweet looks, that charming grace,
In this dim sphere too perfect not to fade.
Still must thy soil with other tears be fed:
On me, my day of clouds and sunshine o'er,
Shall some warm friend a tender drop bestow;
On the cold turf must rest my weary head,
Where Heav'n's pure light shall glad this heart no more,
Alike insensible to joy or woe.