Classic Poem

Oh, many-window'd House, whose light is gloom!
A homeless youth (brought by despair, to die
Where hope comes not,) pants in thy upper room,
And sees the May-Day lark ascend the sky;
But flower of May shall never meet his eye,
Nor mate the earth-worm's all-forgotten guest.
No. She who would have call'd the golden broom,
Or hawthorn-flower, to love him in the tomb.
Hath long been haven'd where the weary rest.
Who sees him weep? Who hears his latest sigh?
What hireling fiend mocks twice his parting groan?
His sire, his sister, the last friend, are gone
To Sin's Australia, where the bad thrive best;
And in a crowded world, he dies alone.