Classic Poem

When majesty yielding to fate,
Receives as a mortal his doom,
What pomp must his burial await!
What splendor must nod o'er his tomb!
Fond fashion in fable disguise,
Must seem to lament o'er his bier,
And the nation put on when he dies,
Political black for a year.

II.

His virtues in life, time unknown,
Must stand to the reader confest,
And the chissel endenting the stone,
Proclaim — what he never possest;
How silly, how vain this parade,
Such vanity all must deplore,
The marble by time is decay'd,
And the monarch is thought on no more.

III.

Departed in life's humble vale,
How diff'rent is Corydon's lot,
His virtues o'er time shall prevail,
And live when e'en kings are forgot.
The shepherds who dwell on the plain,
Shall his same to their children prolong,
And sigh! when reahearsing the strain,
This once was poor Corydon's song.

IV.

Then how solemn the sage shall repeat,
How silent the youths all attend,
Yon house was his pleasant retreat,
With truth his companion and friend;
What goodness still glow'd in his breast?
His loss to the plains, what a grief!
There the stranger was welcome to rest,
And the poor found a constant relief.

V.

Yon groves were his planting and care,
Where nature and art both unite,
The muse oft attended him there
The muse that oft gave us delight;
How charming his pastoral reed,
What taste and simplicity join'd,
His songs were the sweetest agreed,
And forever they'll dwell in my mind.

VI.

Ye shepherds who honour his lays,
Forgive me this poor artless verse;
Believe me I seek not for praise,
But sorrowing follow his hearse:
Yet why should such grief be express'd,
How idle how vain is our woe;
Immortal, he dwells with the bless'd,
Eternal his fame is below.