Classic Poem

Why falls this tear, why swells the flooded Eye?
Why languishes the heart, and why this sigh?
No stab of cruel slander wounds my name,
Nor breath of envy blasts my little Fame;
No noisy creditors infest my door,
Nor scorn of slighting friends proclaims me poor;
Her fairest aspect gentle nature wears,
Her vernal dress, her beauteous bloom appears;
Her annual favours, rich autumnal feasts,
Her fruit with sweet variety of tastes;
Enamel'd gardens, and the works of art,
Which raise the genius, all their charms impart;
But still to me these pleasing views are vain,
And life's enjoyments aggravate my pain;
The gloomy grave my sicken'd soul affrights,
And renders tasteless nature's gay delights;
Some friend inform me what the fates can mean,
Why have we, or why lose this gilded scene?

O king of terrors , just revenge of God ,
Rebellion's creature, and proud mortals rod;
Thou dreadful venom of the serpent 's sting,
That strikes the peasant , nor regards a king ;
When thro' the world thy pointed arrow glides,
Takes friends from friends, and twisted hearts divides;
What rich reflections dost thou give the mind,
Of him thou leav'st a little while behind!
From dust we learn thy brittle life began ,
To dust again returns, O reptile man!
No prince's favour , nor the pomp of state,
Nor birth , nor coronets , which made thee great ,
Which kept the gazing vulgar crowd in awe,
Can screen thee from offended heaven's law.
In darken'd rooms our mortal ruins see,
The dying pains which soon will fall on thee;
There view the orphans groans, the widows fears,
And friends like conduits dropping into tears.

But with the woes of death some good appears,
If S OLON 's right, unseemly are our tears;
By death's arrest the busy tongue is still,
Nor evil natures do us further ill.
The weary there, the troubled are at peace,
And all our restless raging passions cease;
If good, our exit leads to scenes of joy,
We gain a treasure , and we lose a toy .

Shoot forth ye cypress and ye trees of yew,
Ye rosemary, and beds of earthy rue,
To make a dreadful posy for his breast,
That dotes on life, and here expects his rest .
'Tis in this vale of tears that ills abide,
No pains nor sorrows in the grave reside.
There upright Ministers that lov'd the state,
Nor murmur'd at the checks of just debate;
From cruel darts of black'ning envy rest,
And are by angels and by saints carest.
The fruits of virtue we may taste and live,
But no such fruits forbidden trees can give;
From vice's painted form rank poisons flow,
And ev'ry draught will prove a draught in woe;
No lands nor lordships by bad minds possess'd,
No stars with vices sully'd on the breast ,
Give ought to man, 'tis virtue makes him great,
Fit for the smiles of kings and helm of state.
All private knaves their public posts disgrace,
Reproach the friends that vote them into place;
With parts tho' favour'd, prostitute their seat,
And are more dangerous for being great.
In ancient times 'ere modes of vice began,
The man of fashion was the bonest man ;
Untainted honour, modest worth prevail'd,
Nor wicked arts, nor crafty schemes avail'd;
None courted profligates , encourag'd tools ,
And fools however circumstanc'd were fools .

By great examples let us square our lives,
Observe when merit dies, where worth survives;
In P OPE 's expressions be in virtue bold ,
Live o'er each scene and be what they behold;
See great men falling in a mortal state ,
And copy virtues which have made them great;
Who learn from such to live from such to die,
Can quit this transient world without a sigh;
When the grim tyrant sends his gashful train,
And the pale group convince us life is vain;
When they undress us for the sleep of death,
Stop by degrees the lulling wind of breath;
How blest is he whose deeds secure the soul!
Who has that lively faith will make him whole !
His mind's unshaken, and his burthen light,
He dies assur'd WHATEVER IS , IS R IGHT .