Classic Poem

Departed spirit of my honor'd friend!
Around whose tomb the weeping Virtues bend,
While haggard Misery aloud thy worth
Proclaims,—who rais'd her offspring from the earth;
Who bade the sickly cheek health's blushes wear;
Who gave the smile of hope to dark despair!
While charity reclines upon thy urn,
And sportive joys their social favourite mourn;

While Fancy strews upon thy hallow'd grave,
The wreaths which once with thee lov'd to weave;
And thy lov'd Muses press around thy tomb,
And mingle laurel with the cypress gloom!
Then well may I, in no chill fancied lays,
Who knew they worth,—attempt to sing thy praise
O'er thy cold tomb; this last faint tribute shed,
Who lov'd thy virtues, living,—mourn them, dead!
Oh could my numbers like thy verses flow,
Melt with thy softness, with thy fervor glow,
Charm with thy ease, and with thy force impress,
Could I my feelings with thy wit express,—
Could I like thee my loss, my sorrow tell,
—And sing thee, E—, as thou hast sung thy S—ll!
O'er time triumphant, I'd enrol thy name
In the best records of eternal fame!

Nor should obscurity enshroud thy doom,
Nor dark oblivion hover o'er thy tomb;
But tenderness with energy should blend,
T' immortalize the hero, mourn the friend;
The sage, the soldier, poet, scholar sing,
Who serv'd the muse, mankind, his country, king!
Then fondly I would seek thy hallow'd grave,
To weep the immortality I gave;
Each opposite perfection sure was thine,
The tender soul endued with strength divine,
The temper meek, tho' firm,—tho' gay, yet even,
That opened in thy heart an earthly heaven!
The genius form'd to charm and teach mankind,
The polish'd manners, candid, tho' refin'd,—
The native, attic elegance of thought,
With playful ease and forceful feeling fraught!
The art to penetrate, the heart to trust,—
Gentle, tho' stabile,—generous, tho' just;
The dauntless courage danger ne'er dismay'd,
That still to suffering weakness lent its aid;
Feelings benevolent,—the nervous mind
The foe of vice, the friend of human kind,
The brave, good, learned, elegant, combin'd!

Come let me snatch the long neglected lyre,
No Muse, but Virtue shall its strains inspire.
But hark! no full vibration strikes mine ear,
Worthy the noble theme no strains I hear;
Alone, responsive to my mourning sighs,
The lyre its soul-subduing sounds supplies;
Relax'd the chords o'er which my tears o'erflow,
Returning only elegies of woe!