Classic Poem

M'kenzie! master of the art
Each finer feeling to impart,
And at the tender tale of woe
To bid the gen'rous sorrows flow:
Is there, who does not recognize
The feelings from thy page that rise?
Or, by thy sentiments, a mind
That is not soften'd and refin'd?
Such is thy pencil's magic art,
Each stroke so painted to the heart;
All give thee praise the most sincere,
And own thy merits, — with a tear.
Sure feelings to the heart so true
The heart, that felt them, only drew,
And chiefly to thyself belong
The virtues thou couldst mark so strong,
To whom is not thy Harley dear?
Who to his fate denies a tear?
For such a death as his, ev'n I
Could bear, could almost wish to die.
Who to his urn does not repair
To weep with Lucy Walton there;
And, while the tears o'erflow his eyes,
Finds virtue in his bosom rise?
Oh! could I in this feeble lay
Pleasure from thee receiv'd repay!
But, though thy worth I can't express,
Ah think not that I feel it less.