Classic Poem

Thou should'st not to the grave descend
Unmourn'd, unhonour'd, and unsung;
Could harp of mine record thine end,
For thee that rude harp should be strung;
And plaintive notes as ever rung
Should all its simple strings employ,
Lamenting unto old and young
The Bard who sung the Farmer's Boy.

The Harvest Home's rejoicing cup
Should pause, when that sad note was heard;
The Widow turn her Hourglass up,
With tenderest feelings newly stirr'd;
And many a pity-waken'd word,
And sighs that speak when language fails,
Should prove thy simple strains preferr'd
To prouder poets' lofty tales.

Circling the Old Oak Table round,
Whose moral worth thy measure owns,
Heroes and heroines yet are found
Like Abner and the Widow Jones .
There Gilbert Meldrum's sterner tones
In virtue's cause are bold and free,
And ev'n the patient sufferer's moans
In pain and sorrow plead for thee.

Nor thus beneath the straw-roof'd cot
Alone should thoughts of thee pervade
Hearts which confess thee unforgot
On heathy hill, in grassy glade;
In many a spot by thee array'd
With hues of thought, with fancy's gleam,
Thy memory lives, — in Euston's shade,
By Barnham Water's shadeless stream.

And long may guileless hearts preserve
Thy memory, and its tablets be;
While nature's healthy power shall nerve
The arm of labour toiling free:
While childhood's innocence and glee
With green old age enjoyment share,
Richards and Kates shall tell of thee,
Walters and Janes thy name declare.

How wise, how noble, was thy choice,
To be the Bard of simple swains;
In all their pleasures to rejoice,
And soothe with sympathy their pains;
To sing with feeling in thy strains
The simple subjects they discuss,
And be, though free from classic chains,
Our own more chaste Theocritus!