Classic Poem

The spot in which this youth is laid,
Let no unhallow'd foot invade:
Who early worth revere
Will not this tomb unmark'd pass by,
Nor yet refuse to give a sigh
To him who's buried here.

For deeply in his youthful breast
Was learning's sacred love imprest,
And glory's ardent flame;
Success though wishes can't command,
If labours may some praise demand,
That praise he well may claim.

A heart he had to friendship dear,
And to misfortune due a tear;
But most of all he lov'd
One tender nymph with constant heart,
With passion pure, and void of art,
And by that nymph approv'd.

His failings lean'd to virtue's side,
Of independence honest pride,
Contempt of sordid gain,
Of follies of the rich and great,
Th'unmeaning pomp of idle state,
And fopp'ry of the vain.

Though humble, honest was his name,
He fear'd not poverty, but shame:
To act a worthy part
Was still his aim, unknown to prize
The little arts, by which men rise,
He liv'd to his own heart.

Perhaps the friends, who lov'd him here,
Upon his tomb may shed a tear:
Ah! spare, I pray, your woes;
His virtues now, unmix'd with stain
Within God's bosom safe remain
Forever to repose.