Classic Poem

RECITED BY THE AUTHOR, AT FREEMASON'S HALL, MAY 3, 1798.

This generous band, once more assembled here,
Checks in the Muse's eye the starting tear;
While pensive mem'ry dwells, with many a sigh,
On learning's vot'ries doom'd in want to die.
To trace the mournful catalogue would shew
The sons of genius are the heirs of woe!
And that superior talents often doom
Their proud possessor to an early tomb;
Or else condemn their victim to sustain
A youth of envy, and an age of pain!
Remember Chatterton, ordain'd to feel
Neglect, more racking than the torturing wheel.
For him the stream of patronage is dry,
The tear of anguish dims the poet's eye;
Cold penury his lonely steps attend,
And the wide world affords him not a friend.
Grief in his heart, distraction in his brain,
He drinks oblivion to the sense of pain,
And madly ventures o'er that fatal bourn,
From whence to cheerful day there's no return!
Had England no Mecaenas who would save
So bright a genius from a timeless grave,
Snatch from his hand the chalice of despair,
And place the cup of peace and comfort there.
Oh! had this lib'ral band existed then,
His bosom, reconcil'd to life again,
Had felt the energy that hope inspires,
Hope that still fans and feeds the Muse's fires!
Her timely aid benevolence had giv'n,
Nor had his impious deed offended Heav'n.
Yet surely boundless mercy, thron'd sublime,
Permits his suff'rings to atone his crime!
While meek-eyed pity, pointing to his bust,
Melts into tears and consecrates his dust.
Peace to his ashes! may recording fame
Preserve his mem'ry, and forgeThis shame!
Each lib'ral mind your purpose will applaud,
When doing good's your object, and reward;
No ostentation mars your gen'rous deed,
Making the bosom that is succour'd bleed;
No party reigns, no politics inflame,
Benevolence alone your end, and aim.
To foster science in her humble shade,
And spare her feelings while you bring her aid,
Must make your plan, the more 'tis understood,
Attract the wealthy, and delight the good.
Though small, at first, your means to yield relief,
And stop the progress of the Muse's grief,
Those means, each year, increas'd success attends,
And science triumphs to behold her friends!
Thus the small acorn, from a tender root,
Puts forth a weak, and unregarded shoot;
But, Nature's faithful process once begun,
It gains new strength with each revolving sun,
Till its firm stem the raging storm defies,
And its bold branches wave amidst the skies!