Classic Poem

 M ARK , when he died, his tombs, his epitaphs!
Men did not pluck the ostrich for his sake;
Nor dye 't in sable. No black steeds were there,
Caparisoned in woe; no hired crowds;
No hearse, wherein the crumbling clay (imprisoned
Like ammunition in a tumbril) rolled
Rattling along the street, and silenced grief;
No arch whereon the bloody laurel hung;
No stone; no gilded verse;—poor common shews!
But tears, and tearful words, and sighs as deep
As sorrow is—these were his epitaphs!
Thus,—(fitly graced,) he lieth now, inurned
In hearts that loved him, on whose tender sides
Are graved his many virtues. When they perish,—
He's lost!—and so 't should be. The poet's name
And hero's—on the brazen book of Time,
Are writ in sunbeams, by Fame's loving hand;
But none record the household virtues there.
These better sleep (when all dear friends are fled)
In endless and serene oblivion!