Classic Poem

Too oft, where tow'ring Genius lends its ray,
And glowing Fancy takes its flow'ry way;
Where nice Expression too, fulfils its part,
And guides each well-wrought image to the heart.
While rapt'rous thought the reader may inspire,
And his eye kindles with a borrow'd fire;
Strange to reveal! the coldest heart may dwell
In him whose eloquence describes so well,
He that cou'd write—cou'd soften, and subdue,
May paint the feelings that he never knew!
May trace the hero's path to virtuous fame,
Yet live the slave of avarice and of shame:
E'en treach'rous views, perhaps, his mind employ,
And his heart triumphs with malignant joy!

But thou!—Oh gentlest Spirit of thy kind!
Whose pow'rs can waken, and exalt the mind;
Can plead for mercy, in so soft a strain,
That ranc'rous envy might oppose in vain—
To patient candour lend such charms to win,
E'en calumny itself might take her in.
Thou! that hast feeling, with peculiar art,
To touch each spring that vibrates on the heart!
Thou! that hast learnt, with true and genuine taste,
To cull each flow'r that decks, the barren waste;
And many an humble plant, wou'd save with care,
Which “wastes its sweetness on the desart air.”
For thee the Muse, with heartfelt ardour springs;
The simple plaudit of the heart she brings.
For H ARLEY'S fate her silent tears have flow'd,
Her eye has trac'd him to his deep abode;
Unbidden sighs, his sad remembrance save,
And “the green grass waves lightly o'er his grave.”
That spot—to Gratitude—to Virtue dear!
Receives the tribute of a Soldier's tear:
The poor man's rev'rence there shall tribute pay,
And weeping Love shall guard the pensive way.