Classic Poem

Wouldst thou inquire of him who sleeps beneath,
This tomb shall tell thee, 'tis no common dust,
That, crush'd at length by oft-defeated death,
Fills the cold urn committed to its trust.

Stranger! this building fallen to decay,
Was once the dwelling of an honest mind—
A spirit cheerful as the light of day—
The soul of friendship—milk of human kind.

His art forbade th' expiring wretch to die,
Empower'd the nerveless tongue once more to speak,
Restor'd its lustre to the sunken eye,
And spread fresh roses on the livid cheek.

Each various duty bound on social man,
'Twas his with glowing duty to perform,
As crystal pure, his stream of conduct ran,
Unstain'd by folly, undisturb'd by storm.