Classic Poem

ON THE DEATH OF MR. JOHN TANDEY, SEN .

I.

Y E virgins of the sacred choir,
Awake the soul-dissolving lyre,
 Begin the mournful strain;
To deck the much-loved Tandey's urn,
Let the poetic genius burn,
 And all Parnassus drain.

II.

Ye ghosts! that leave the silent tomb
To wander in the midnight gloom,
 Unseen by mortal eye;
Garlands of yew and cypress bring,
Adorn his tomb, his praises sing,
 And swell the general sigh.

III.

Ye wretches, who could scarcely save
Your starving offspring from the grave,
 By God afflicted sore,
Vent the big tear, the soul-felt sigh,
And swell your meagre infants' cry,
 For Tandey is no more.

IV.

To you his charity he dealt,
His melting soul your miseries felt,
 And made your woes his own:
A common friend to all mankind,
His face the index of his mind,
 Where all the saint was shown.

V.

In him the social virtues joined,
His judgment sound, his sense refined,
 His actions ever just.
Who can suppress the rising sigh,
To think such saint-like men must die,
 And mix with common dust?

VI.

Had virtue power from death to save,
The good man ne'er would see the grave,
 But live immortal here:
Hawksworth and Tandey are no more;
Lament, ye virtuous and ye poor,
 And drop the unfeigned tear.