Classic Poem

IS the vital spark extinct?
Is the quick'ning spirit flown?
Teach me, beauteous bird! to think
In thy fate to read my own.

Though with circling comforts bless'd,
I the bitter draught must taste,
Thou, tyrant Death! wilt break my rest,
Swift my little span must waste.

I each tender friend must leave,
Burst each soft endearing tie;
I must press the dreary grave,
And in cold obstruction lie.

But what avails thy gloomy pow'r?
Me should faith support, 'tis flown;
Consolation soothes the hour,
Terror flies, and hope's my own.

This lay requite, sweet bird! with care;
Hov'ring like a Sylph attend;
With notes airial charm my ear,
And warbling soothe thy pensive friend.