Classic Poem

The willing muse, tho' late, her tribute pays;
In fault'ring notes attempts fair Bewick's praise,
And fain would every latent virtue paint,
That grac'd the picture of the heavenly saint,
See the fond mother startles at the name,
And wild disorder shakes her trembling frame;
The deep recesses of her bleeding heart,
With sad rememb'rance, agonized smart;
See trickling tears, expressive sign of woe,
Adown her pallid cheeks in torrents flow.
Forgive the hand that with unguarded stroke,
Renew'd your sorrows, and your pain awoke;
Yet, sometimes in the tender feeling breast,
Fair sensibility's a welcome guest;
And, oft she shews us from our tears we gain,
And reap our greatest pleasure from our pain.
How vain, how needless is the sculptor's art,
A nobler tomb is her's in every heart!
Yes, all who knew her from her very birth,
Bear testimony to her matchless worth;
Even those who knew her not, aloud proclaim
Her spotless virtue, and immortal fame.
In vain affliction strove that worth to shroud,
It shone with brighter lustre thro' the cloud;
Tho' pallid sickness damp'd her rising blood,
And check'd the progress of the crimson flood,
Each complicated pang conspir'd in vain,
For resignation triumph'd over pain;
Celestial patience arm'd her stedfast soul,
No pains her inward virtue could controul.
Tho' all the joys of beauty, youth, and wealth,
Were fled, like phantoms, with departed health,
Calm and serene she yielded up her breath,
Blest the kind stroke of fate, and smil'd in death!
Th' eternal father deem'd her blooming worth
Too bright for this evanescent speck of earth;
Recall'd her soul to yon bright realms above,
The mansions of eternal light and love;
Where no corroding care her bliss annoys,
No ruffling passions interrupTher joys —
Stop worthless pen, the needless task resign,
Her virtues of themselves illustrious shine;
When mortal's feeble skill can number o'er
The sands that lie along the sea-beat shore,
Or count each brilliant star with twinkling rays,
That thro' the blue expanse of aether strays,
Then, not till then, can I her praise rehearse,
Which far exceeds the limits of my verse.