Classic Poem

ON VISITING THE TOMB OF

DAVID HUME,

THE HISTORIAN

IN A BURYING GROUND AT EDINBURGH .

There comes a season, when man's eye, disturb'd,
Inquires for nothing further, but appears
Awhile to close, and, the reflecting mind
Deep-pondering on itself, can nought behold.
Fair S pring , with all her pearls, and tints, and flow
No longer charms, nor S ummer 's purple fruits
Distilling nectar'd sweets, nor A utumn 's crops
Of glowing gold; nor W inter 's frosts impearled,
Mantling the mountain-tops, and binding close
With freezy hand waters, and glens and groves.
Beauteously grotesque, or wanton wild, the scene
Smiles vainly, for th' unconscious eye sees not
In seeing, with no rapture swells the breast:
M orning from saffron wing her airs perfum'd
Scatters in vain, and wakes her minstrel bird,
The tuneful lark, in vain; kind Heaven around
The skilful minstrel never wakes again;
Or like a weapon, by th' encrusted mould
Close over-grown, and faded, till no more
Tapers and shines the time-devoured steel.
Such, too, the season, when from Calton Hill
The traveller with quicken'd steps approaches
Death's silent mansion, where in long repose
Together sleep philosopher and fool,
Unenvying, undistinguish'd: there the sage
With reverence pauses; there the silent tear
Of sympathy lets fall, while on thy tomb
Gazing, illustrious Hume: th' unthinking world
Then absent with its babblers, much he sighs,
Nor asks of folly leave — Thro' the close breast
A pleasing sadness steals: for mid the crowd
Of mortals dead, to ponder o'er the few
Of frame more durable, who living rais'd
Their fame's more lasting monument, and left
A legacy of deeds to times remote,
Is sweet, even when the soul is sad, is sweet.