Classic Poem

I.

God help thee, weary one, thy cheek is pale,
And Phrenzy fires that wildly wandering eye;
Hop'st thou to find repose in yonder vale?
Alas! poor Maniac, Death is not so nigh:
The breeze will only mock thy burning brain,
The flow'rs that flourish, flourish not for thee;
Bliss is not lovely to the eye of pain,
The bliss we cannot cherish, tho' we see,
There's many a burden thou must yet sustain,
And many an impulse to the rising sigh:
Till Death forbids thy sorrows to complain,
And thou and they alike unconscious lie;
Weary and wan, wild muttering thou must go,
With long and lingering pace, and tottering footsteps slow.