Classic Poem

MASTER OF THE GRAMMAR SCHOOL, STIRLING .

The shades of dim twilight descend on the plain;
The pale moon gleams faint on the grave;
The voice of affliction tunes Friendship's sad strain,
Re-echoed thus back from the cave.

" Vain mortals! whom Learning and G ENIUS elate;
Enthusiasts! who pant for a name!
Yon village bell, tolled by the mandate of fate,
Proclaims — what avails lettered fame!

He's gone! to whom learning (though humble his lot)
Fond, smiling, unlocked all her store;
Called genius to brighten the ardour of thought,
And light paths untrodden before.

He's gone! round whose temples the Muses of Rome
Entwined their loved garlands of old;
He's gone! to whose mem'ry, inscribed on his tomb,
They warbled the truths which he told.

Alas! ye fond Muses! where now dwell your strain!
To these haunts will ye never return?
Mute, save when Remembrance, with all her dark train,
And Friendship thus wail o'er the urn!

Yet, yet shall the strain (if such strains shall survive
The sunshine of life's fleeting ray)
Record what, if drooping, perchance may revive
The minstrel of some future day;

Yet, yet shall the strain, if such strains can afford
A solace to soothe Virtue's moan;
Transmit, what indignant, the Muse shall record
For meek, modest Virtue alone!

Shall tell lowly Fortune, and bards yet unborn,
How genius bloomed rich in the shade;
Unsun'd flower'd neglected, through thicket and thorn,
And wafted her sweets round the glade:

Uncheered, unrewarded, by Fortune or Fame,
Fourscore smiling springs hailed the bloom; —
Nipt at length, cold neglect felt remorse, tinged with shame,
And sculptured the cause on the tomb.