Classic Poem

Remember the Bard, though mute is his lyre,
And wither'd for ever the hands that he flung
O'er its chords, while with more than a patriot's fire,
He the triumphs of freedom and bravery sung.
He had strings too for beauty, love, virtue, and truth,
That shone ever bright, and as free from decay,
As those lines which the Easterns beheld in their youth,
And gaz'd on in age, as their souls fled away.

Remember the Bard, like the Huma sublime,
He ne'er sinks to the earth, so exalted his flight;
But winging his way through sweet Poesy's clime,
O'er his dear native land pours his heaven-drawn light.
Oh! Caledon, guard thou his ashes with awe:
For thy poetic world was deserted and dim,
Till he rose on thy darkness, and Scotia then saw
That world of the muse all illumin'd by him.

In the island of Paros a marble was plac'd,
On its rugged and desolate sea-beaten shore,
Where naught could be seen but the blue ocean's waste,
And naught could be heard but the sea's deaf'ning roar.

Should a stranger but fail in respect to the tomb,
As many all heartless would fearlessly dare,
Swift a race of avengers spring forth from its gloom,
And punish'd his crime as he fled in despair.

Thus, Scotia, protect thy lov'd poet, whose name
Should be blest by each child, with its infantine breath;
And should critics presume e'er to sully his fame,
Burst forth from his tomb, and quick sting them to death.
Yet stay! — let the drivellers from death be redeem'd,
It were giving them honours from which they're exempt, —
'Twere declaring their venom too highly esteem'd,
So leave them to die of neglect and contempt.