Classic Poem

His restless spirit, while on earth he dwelt,
Wreathed with a smile whatever grief he felt,
And 'twas his lot, though crowned with public praise,
Ample and warm, to walk in troubled ways.
Glad was his voice, that all men loved to hear,
While few surmised the pang, the secret tear;
Yet did that thrill of pathos flush the grace
Of playful humor in his speaking face,
Inform his fancy and inspire his art
To cheer the senses and to touch the heart.
Jocund and droll, incessant, buoyant, quaint,
His vigor fired the forms his skill could paint,
Till, over-anxious lest effects were tame,
He left his picture, to adorn its frame.
A mind more serious never did engage
Through simulated mirth the comic stage,
Nor strong ambition conquer and control
A sturdier will and more aspiring soul.
If haply, much constrained, his purpose bowed
To woo the fancy of the fickle crowd,
Yet did his judgment spurn the poor renown
Of shallow jester and of trivial clown.
A true comedian this, by fate designed
To picture manners and to cheer mankind.
So R AYMOND lived; and naught remains to tell,
Save that too soon the final curtain fell.
Peace to his dust, where love and honor weep,
In endless sorrow, o'er their comrade's sleep.