Classic Poem

TO THOMSON'S CORIOLANUS .

I come not here your candour to implore
For scenes whose author is, alas! no more;
He wants no advocate his cause to plead;
You will yourselves be patrons of the dead.
No party his benevolence confin'd,
No sect — alike it flow'd to all mankind.
He lov'd his friends, (forgive this gushing tear;
Alas! I feel I am no actor here)
He lov'd his friends with such a warmth of heart,
So clear of int'rest, so devoid of art,
Such gen'rous friendship, such unshaken zeal,
No words can speak it, but our tears may tell. —
O candid truth! O faith without a stain!
O manners gently firm and nobly plain!
O sympathizing love of others bliss!
Where will you find another breast like his?
Such was the Man — the Poet well you know,
Oft' has he touch'd your hearts with tender wo,
Oft' in this crowded house with just applause
You heard him teach fair Virtue's purest laws;
For his chaste Muse employ'd her heav'n-taught lyre
None but the noblest passions to inspire;
Not one immoral one corrupted thought
One line which dying he could wish to blot.
Oh! may to-night your favourable doom
Another laurel add to grace his tomb,
Whilst he, superiour now to praise or blame,
Hears not the feeble voice of human fame.
Yet if to those whom most on earth he lov'd,
From whom his lib'ral hand and bounteous heart
Shar'd all his little fortune could impart,
If to those friends your kind regard shall give
What they no longer can from his receive,
That, that, ev'n now, above yon' starry pole
May touch with pleasure his immortal soul.