Classic Poem

Written with a Pencil on the Grave-stone of a departed Friend.

Stop , passenger — here muse a while;
Think on his darksome lone abode,
Who late, like thee, did jocund smile,
Now lies beneath this cold green sod.

Art thou to vicious ways inclin'd,
Pursuing pleasure's flow'ry road?
Know — fell remorse shall rack thy mind,
When tott'ring to thy cold green sod.

If thou a friend to virtue art,
Oft pitying burthen'd mis'ry's load;
Like thee, he had a feeling heart,
Who lies beneath this cold green sod.

With studious philosophic eye,
He look'd through Nature up to God,
His future hope, his greatest joy,
Who lies beneath this cold green sod.

Go, passenger — revere this truth;
A life well spent in doing good,
Soothes joyless age, and sprightly youth,
When drooping o'er the cold green sod.