Classic Poem

WHO ARE BOTH INTERRED, AT THE BASE OF SHAKSPEARE'S STATUE, IN WESIMINSTER ABBEY .

Turn , musing stranger, thy enquiring eyes,
The shrine of Shakspeare points where Johnson lies;
And mourn with England that ill-fated day,
That snatch'd her sweetest moralist away!
Possess'd of all that mortal could acquire,
The critic's learning, with the poet's fire,
Without reproach through life's great scene he pass'd,
Esteem'd, rever'd, and honour'd to the last!
Pure were his morals, pure his learned pen,
The first of writers, and the best of men!
Near him, in death, the matchless Garrick lies —
For ever dim the magic of his eyes!
Whose potent spell could, with a glance, impart
Mirth to the fancy, terror to the heart!
To nature and her darling offspring true,
He copied not, but was what Shakspeare drew,
For ever varying and for ever new!
Congenial souls! that grac'd a polish'd age,
Born to elucidate sweet Avon's page!
Peace to the actor's, critic's, poet's shade,
Their debt to science and to nature paid!
Ere three such men as these again appear,
Death shall have ceas'd to cause mankind a tear!
Eternal bays shall bind each sacred bust,
And weeping genius shall bedew their dust!