Classic Poem

WHEN Kings and Heroes in the dust are laid,
The Poet's laurel crowns the Warrior's shade:
When Youth and Beauty, nipp'd in early bloom,
Lost to the World, sleep silent in the tomb;
Then wreaths of solemn cypress deck the herse,
And all the sorrows of elegiack verse:
What, then, shall aged Goodness press the bier,
And want “the meed of some melodious tear?”
And shall the heart, which soft Compassion wrung,
And shall the lib'ral hand remain unsung?
No, Justice, No!—These fingers shall aspire,
To wake the mournful Muses' pensive lyre,
For her who wept at Sorrows not her own,
And heav'd soft Pity's sympathising groan.
Hers was the Art to chase Affliction's fears,
The Window's anguish, and the Orphan's tears:
To melting Kindness open as the morn,
She sav'd the Wanderer who rov'd forlorn;
Where Sorrow call'd still bade her bounty flow,
And gave a tear to ev'ry child of Woe.
What if no polish'd arts her soul refin'd,
Yet solid worth adorn'd her pious mind.
And form'd by Nature in a gen'rous mould,
No sordid love, no mean desire of gold,
The lib'ral hand of Charity controul'd.
Hers was the glory of the happy few,
The real fame, to live to all she knew:
With those whom Fortune shunn'd her wealth to share,
And give with freedom, what she gain'd with care.