Classic Poem

As when the King of Peace and Lord of Love
Sends down some brighter angel from above,
Pleas'd with the beauties of the heavenly guest,
A while we view him in full glory drest:
But he, impatient from his heaven to stay,
Soon disappears, and wings his airy way:
So didst thou vanish, eager to appear
And shine triumphant in thy native sphere.
Yet hadst thou all that virtue can bestow,
All the good practise, and the learned know,
Such holy rapture as not warms, but fires,
While the soul seems retiring, or retires:
Such transports as those saints in vision share,
Who know not whether they are rapt thro' air,
Or bring down Heaven to meet them in a pray'r.
O early lost! yet stedfast to survey
Envy, disease, and death, without dismay;
Serene, the sting of pain thy thoughts beguile,
And make afflictions, objects of a smile:
So the fam'd patriarch on his couch of stone
Enjoy'd bright visions from the eternal throne.
Thus wean'd from earth, where pleasure scarce can please,
Thy woes but hasten'd thee to heaven and peace;
As angry winds, when loud the tempest roars,
More swiftly speed the vessel to the shores.
O may these lays a lasting lustre shed
O'er thy dark urn, like lamps that grace the dead!
Strong were thy thoughts, yet reason bore the sway;
Humble, yet learn'd; tho' innocent, yet gay;
So pure of heart, that thou might'st sately show
Thy inmost bosom to thy baselt foe;
Careless of wealth, thy bliss a calm retreat,
Far from the insults of the scornful great;
Thence looking with disdain on proudest things,
Thou deemed'st mean the pageantry of kings,
Who build their pride on trappings of a throne,
A painted ribband or a glitt'ring stone,
Uselessly bright! 'Twas thine the soul to raise
To nobler objects, such as angels praise;
To live to mortals' empty fame a foe,
And pity human joy and human woe;
To view ev'n splendid vice with gen'rous hate;
In life unblemish'd, and in death fedate;
Then conscience, shining with a lenient ray,
Dawn'd o'er thy soul, and promis'd endless day.
So from the setting orb of Phœbus fly
Beams of calm light, and glitter to the sky.
Where now, O! where shall I true friendship find
Among the treach'rous race of base mankind?
Whom, whom consult in all th' uncertain ways
Of various life, sincere to blame or praise?
O friend! O! falling in thy strength of years,
Warm from the melting soul receive these tears!
O woods! O wilds! O ev'ry bow'ry shade!
So often vocal by his music made,
Now other sounds—far other sounds! return,
And o'er his hearse with all your echoes mourn!—
Yet dare we grieve that soon the paths he trod
To heaven, and left vain man for saints and God?
Thus in the theatre the scenes unfold
A thousand wonders glorious to behold,
And here or there as the machine extends
A hero rises, or a god descends;
But soon the momentary pleasure flies,
Swift vanishes the god, or hero dies.
Where were ye, Muses! by what fountain side,
What river, sporting when your fav'rite dy'd?
He knew by verse to chain the headlong floods,
Silence loud winds, or charm attentive woods;
Nor deign'd but to high themes to tune the string,
To such as Heaven might hear, and angels sing:
Unlike those bards who, uninform'd to play,
Grate on their jarring pipes a flashy lay,
Each line display'd united strength and ease,
Form'd like his manners to instruct and please.
So herbs of balmy excellence produce
A blooming flow'r and salutary juice;
And while each plant a smiling grace reveals,
Usefully gay, at once it charms and heals.
Transcend ev'n after death, ye great! in show,
Lend pomp to ashes, and be vain in woe:
Hire substitutes to mourn with formal cries,
And bribe unwilling drops from venal eyes;
While here sincerity of grief appears,
Silence that speaks, and eloquence in tears;
While, tir'd of life, we but consent to live
To show the world how really we grieve.
As some fond fire whose only son lies dead,
All lost to comfort makes the dust his bed,
Hangs o'er his urn, with frantic grief deplores,
And bathes his clay-cold cheek with copious show'rs;
Such heart-felt pangs on thy sad bier attend,
Companion! brother! all in one—my friend!
Unless the soul a wound eternal bears,
Sighs are but air, but common water tears:
The proud relentless weep in state, and show
Not sorrow, but magnificence of woe.
Thus in the fountain, from the sculptor's hands,
With imitated life, an image stands;
From rocky entrails thro' his stony eyes
The mimic tears in streams incessant rise
Unconscious, while aloft the waters flow
The gazers' wonder and a public show.
Ye hallow'd Domes! his frequent visits tell,
Thou court where God himself delights to dwell;
Thou Mystic Table and thou holy Feast!
How often have ye seen the sacred guest?
How oft' his soul with heavenly manna fed,
His faith enliven'd, while his sin lay dead?
While list'ning angels heard such raptures rise
As when they hymn th' Almighty charms the skies.
But where, now where, without the body's aid,
New to the heav'ns, subsists thy gentle shade?
Glides it beyond our gross imperfect sky,
Pleas'd high o'er stars from world to world to fly,
And fearless marks the comet's dreadful blaze
While monarchs quake and trembling nations gaze?
Or holds deep converse with the mighty dead,
Champions of virtue, who for virtue bled?
Or joins in concert with angelic choirs,
Where hymning seraphs sound their golden lyres,
Where raptur'd saints unfading crowns in wreath,
Triumphant o'er the world, o'er sin and death?
O may the thought his friend's devotion raise!
O may he imitate as well as praise!
Awake, my heavy soul! and upward fly,
Speak to the saint, and meet him in the sky,
And ask the certain way to rise as high.