A Poet's Epitaph

O SIRANGER ! if thy wayward lot
Through Folly's heedless maze has led,
Here nurse the true, the tender thought,
And fling the wild flow'r on his head.

For he, by this cold hillock clad,
Where tall grass twines the pointed stone,
Each gentlest balm of feeling had,
To soothe all sorrow but his own.

For he, by tuneful Fancy rear'd,
(Though ever dumb he sleeps below),
The stillest sigh of anguish heard,
And gave a tear to ev'ry woe.

Then, stranger, be his foibles lost;
At such small foibles virtue smil'd:
Few was their number, large their cost,
For he was Nature's orphan child.

When taught by life its pangs to know,
Ah! as thou roam'st the checker'd gloom,
Bid the sweet night-bird's numbers flow,
And the last sunbeam light his tomb.
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