Classic Poem

WHERE sleeps the Bard who grac'd Musæus' hearse
With fragrant trophies, by the Muses wove?
Shall G RAY'S cold urn in vain demand the verse,
Oh! can his Mason fail in plaintive love?

No; with the Nine inwrapp'd in social woe,
His lyre unstrung, sad vigil he must keep,
With them he mourns, with them his eyes o'erflow,
For such a Bard immortal maids can weep.

Their early pupil in the heav'nly lore
Of sacred poësy and moral song,
They taught the youth on eagle wing to soar,
And bore him thro' aerial heights along.

Fancy, obedient to their dread command,
With brilliant Genius, marshall'd forth his way;
They lur'd his steps to Cambria's once-fam'd land,
And sleeping Druids felt his magic lay.

But vain the magic lay, the warbling lyre,
Imperious Death! from thy fell grasp to save;
He knew, and told it with a poet's fire,
“The paths of Glory lead but to the Grave.”

And shall the Bard, whose sympathizing mind
Mourn'd o'er the simple rustic's turfy cell,
To strew his tomb no grateful mourner find,
No village swain to ring one parting knell?

Yes, honour'd shade! the fringed brooks I'll trace,
Green rushes culling, thy dank grave to strew,
With mountain flow'rs I'll deck the hallow'd place,
And fence it round with Osiers mixt with Yew.