Classic Poem

In Chiswick Church, on a Youth of Fifteen.

If in the morn of life each winning grace,
The converse sweet, the mind-illumin'd face,
The lively wit that charm'd with early art,
And mild affections streaming from the heart;
If these, lov'd youth, could check the hand of Fate,
Thy matchless worth had claim'd a longer date.
But thou art blest, while here we heave the figh;
Thy death is virtue wafted to the sky.
Yet still thy image fond affection keeps,
The sire remembers, and the mother weeps;
Still the friend grieves, who saw thy vernal bloom,
And here, sad task! inscribes it on thy tomb.