"Too oft the poet in elaborate verse"

Too oft the poet in elaborate verse, Flushed with quaint images and gorgeous tropes, Casteth a doubtful light, which is not hope's, On the dark spot where Death hath sealed his curse In monumental silence. Nature starts Indignant from the sacrilege of words That ring so hollow, and forlornly girds Her great woe round her; there's no trick of Art's But shows most ghastly by a new-made tomb. I see no balm in Gilead; he is lost, The beautiful soul that loved thee, thy life's bloom Is withered by the sudden blighting frost; O Grief! how mighty; Creeds! how vain ye are: Earth presses closely,--Heaven is cold and far.