Classic Poem

Why hide our tears? Why set an end
To sorrow for so dear a friend?
Melpomene, to whom thy sire
Hath given melodious voice and lyre,
Of prompted elegy thy teaching lend.

'Tis true then, on Quintilius' eyes
The sleep that knows no waking lies.
Will ever Modesty his peer,
Or stainless Faith, own sister dear
To Justice, find, or Truth that scorns disguise?

Good men on all sides mourn his fate:
None, Virgil, more than thou. Too late
Dost thou from heaven, with plainings fond
Of trust betrayed and broken bond,
Thy pledge, Quintilius, claim importunate.

What though, to more persuasive strain
Than Thracian Orpheus did attain
Thy string attuning, thou could'st sway
The trees attentive to thy lay?
Would blood return to swell the empty vein

Of shade that once by Maia's son,
Wand-bearer fell not lightly stirred
To respite those whom death has won,
Is gathered to the sable herd?
'Tis hard; but patience brings relief
To irremediable grief.