ON THE DEATH OF A CLASSMATE.

'Oh! what a shadow o'er the heart is flung, When peals the requiem for the loved and young!'

We waste no sorrow o'er the verdant tomb When whitened Age is called to meet its doom; With shattered bark, on life's wild current driven, The tempest, threat'ning death, but wafts to heaven; And the freed spirit, borne on eagle wing, Mounts to the regions of eternal spring. No; 'tis not Age we mourn; life's course is run, And soon, at best, must set its sinking sun. We weep no sad adieu when infant years Fly this cold vale, where joy still ends in tears; Ere yet a cloud has dimmed their morning sky Which hangs outspread so clearly blue on high; That sky the tempest's wrath will soon deform, And the day, dawned in sunshine, close in storm. Oh! who would bid that wandering spirit stay, Which seeks a fairer realm, a brighter day! But when th' Avenger in his withering track Strikes in its bloom the pride of Manhood down, The heart's sad strings, but faintly echo back The plaintive murmurings of Sorrow's moan. 'Unhappy youth!' ere life was well begun, And thy brief day had seen scarce half a sun, The roses from thy fading cheek have flown, And Death, the spoiler, marked thee for his own!