Classic Poem

W HERE'ER thy mortal part be laid,
Peace to thy Manes, gentle Shade!
Such peace, as in a world of cares,
The Child of Feeling seldom shares!
Thine was the sympathetic heart,
So form'd to bless, and form'd to smart:
Thine were the soft affections, wove
For every charm of mutual love!
Thine were the manners and the mind,
By Learning and the Muse refin'd!
That heart with noblest feelings fraught,
That mind enrich'd with manly thought,
Had worldly prudence center'd there,
Perhaps had known less worldly care.
Ah! why does Heav'n the spark impart,
Which warms, alas! to wound the heart?
Far happier they who thoughtless go,
Nor feel the pangs of tender woe.
For oh! the wounds which pierce the mind,
Tho' clos'd, still leave a scar behind,
Which never Esculapian pow'r,
Can heal, and bid them pain no more!

Thou thro' whose breast, its mild abode,
The milk of human kindness flow'd,
If in thy path decreed on earth,
The thorn without the rose had birth;
Now where no pangs, no passions rise,
In happier worlds and happier skies,
Thy feet have gain'd that friendly shore,
Where never thorn shall wound them more.
Yet, if around its earthly cell,
Awhile thy Spirit love to dwell,
Receive the Muses' friendly tear,
The wreath now offer'd at thy bier;
And oh! where'er thy bones are laid,
Peace to thy Manes, gentle Shade!