Classic Poem

Come , ye whose souls harmonious sounds inspire,
Friends to the muse, and judges of her song;
Who, catching from the bard his heavenly fire,
Soar as he soars, sublimely rapt along;
Mourn, mourn your loss: he's gone who had the art
With sounds to sooth the ear, with sense to warm the heart.

Who now shall dare to lift the sacred rod,
Truth's faithful guard, where vice escapes the law?
Who now, high soaring to the throne of God,
In nature's moral cause his pen shall draw?
Let none pretend; he's gone, who had the art
With sounds to sooth the ear, with sense to warm the heart.

Vice now secure her blushless front shall raise,
And all her triumph be through Britain borne;
Whose worthless sons from guilt shall purchase praise,
Nor dread the hand that pointed them to scorn;
No check remains; he's gone, who had the art
With sounds to sooth the ear, with sense to warm the heart.

Ye tuneless bards now tire each venal quill,
And from the public gather idle pence;
Ye tasteless peers now build and plant your fill,
Though splendour borrows not one ray from sense;
Fear no rebuke; he's gone, who had the art
With sounds to sooth the ear, with sense to warm the heart.

But come, ye chosen, ye selected few,
Ye next in genius, as in friendship, join'd,
The social virtues of his heart who knew,
And stated all the beauties of his mind;
Drop, drop a tear; he's gone, who had the art
With sounds to charm the ear, with sense to warm the heart.
And, O great shade! permit thy humblest friend
His sigh to waft, his grateful tear to pay
Thy honour'd memory; and condescend
To hear, well pleas'd, the weak, yet well-meant lay,
Lamenting thus: he's gone, who had the art
With sounds to sooth the ear, with sense to warm the heart.