Classic Poem

'Tis o'er, 'tis past, the melancholy bier
Has reach'd ere now the ne'er departing goal;
Intruding thoughts, reflection too severe,
Avaunt! nor raise new horrors in the soul.

Slow, very slow, the sad procession pass'd,
The tears of sorrow trembl'd in each eye;
Crowd press'd on crowd, in silence gaz'd their last,
Tear follow'd tear, and sigh re-echo'd sigh.

The ancient Abbey, clad in dread array,
Smil'd when the creeking hinges op'd the door;
The yawning vault receiv'd its darling prey,
And clos'd the scene his num'rous friends deplore.

Clasp him, Maria, clasp him to your breast,
For he could sweetly all thy griefs reveal;
And oft his eye, sad virgin, has confess'd,
His heart has felt what manhood would conceal.

Ah! gentle Sterne, who now shall e'er relate
Le Fevre's woe with such exquisite art;
Could you not check'd awhile the hand of Fate!
For once repell'd the king of terrors dart!

No! you beheld his genius tow'ring rise,
And joyful saw his summons seal'd to die,
And ere his soul had reach'd th' etherial skies,
In raptures bore it to his God on high.

There with a Shakespeare and a Garrick plac'd,
He acts a part his God has him ordain'd;
" Recording angels " have his faults eras'd,
From heaven's volume, where a speck remain'd.

Let then a smile adorn his widow's face,
For now he wears the never-fading wreath;
While he in heav'n preserves for her a place,
Know, bliss supreme, is only found in death!