Classic Poem

TO THE MEMORY OF JOHN SCOTT OF AMWELL, BY HENRY LEMOINE .

Come , thou queen of pensive strains,
Attune thy lyre to notes of woe;
Soft as when Philomel complains,
Let thy harmonious numbers flow.

From yonder tower, with ivy crown'd,
Grim Melancholy speed thy way;
And Grief, with downcast eye profound,
Who pining shuns the cheerful day.

The solemn yew and cypress twine
To shade the spot where Theron lies;
Whilst thou, the saddest of the Nine,
Shall o'er his turf heave plaintive sighs.

He's gone! — the pride of Amwell's plains,
The gentlest shepherd of the throng:
No more he chants his tuneful strains,
Nor Echo emulates his song.

On him indulgent Heaven bestow'd
The graces which improve the heart,
True genius in his bosom glow'd,
And Nature was improv'd by Art.

Well pleas'd in life his grot to raise,
To form the landscape, plant the grove,
Or strike the lyre in virtue's praise,
And sing his Hymeneal love.

His generous hand diffus'd around
The blessings of a feeling heart:
His pittänce heal'd the' envenom'd wound,
And pity's balm allay'd the smart.

For never would his hand deny
What fate enabled to bestow;
Anxious to wipe from Sorrow's eye
The tears of indigence and woe.

Nor would he check the swelling tear,
When injur'd merit pin'd in pain;
When genius droop'd to fell despair,
How sympathetic every strain.

Disciples of the mimic art,
For you he pour'd the' instructive lay;
And, for the monitory part,
Your grateful homage solemn pay.

But still the useful page survives,
To future times preserv'd by Fame,
And in her shrine his memory lives,
That those unborn may lisp his name.

The chisel'd verse may deck the stone,
That prostrates o'er the poet's dust;
But 'tis his worth, 'tis that alone
Shall save him from Oblivion's rust.

Yet Hope a brighter scene displays,
She points to realms of endless day,
Where Virtue, like the solar blaze,
Beams bright, but never knows decay.