Classic Poem

Ye sons of mirth your plaintive strains give o'er,
Nor mourn that Ryder fills the scene no more;
He's gone 'tis true, nor left his like behind
To sooth the passions, or elate the mind;
'Twas he himself who crack'd sly Scapin's joke,
And Ryder felt what honest Collin spoke,
Tho' oft he play'd the dark Iago's part,
And feign'd old Lovegold with unrival'd art;
Did real want but rear her pallid head,
Then Ryder play'd—his acting all was fled.
Tho' tost thro' various scenes of care and strife,
He shone a Belcour on the stage of life;
'Till worn by toils Thalia claim'd her son,
To wear that crown his sterling merit won.
His acts being o'er the muse close veil'd his eyes,
And bore him joyful to the vaulted skies.
Then cease to mourn, his spirit's only flown,
To reign with Shakspeare on his laurel throne.