Classic Poem

No more, my friend, pursue a distant theme,
While nearer objects call reflexion home;
Farewell the vivid fire, the deep-laid scheme
Of polish'd A THENS and imperial R OME .

By fancy led thro' many a B RITISH age,
O'er W INTON'S melancholy walks we'll stray:
Where, once so busy on this mortal stage,
The wearied actors close their short-liv'd play.

O'er the pale sleepers wave the wings of night,
And solemn silence guards their long repose:
May no rude clamour, or detecting light,
Disturb this last retreat of human woes!

May never more return that impious age,
When dire rebellion scourg'd our guilty isle,
When civil discord, and fanatic rage,
Profan'd the shelter of this reverend pile.

The mad enthusiast sacks the sacred dome,
He rends the trophy from the hero's bust:
Nor weeping angels o'er the vestal's tomb
From insult shield the violated dust.

Sepulchral darkness felt a painful ray,
And silence, waken'd by the trumpet, fled:
While wantoNoutrage, to the frighted day,
Unveil'd the mould'ring horrors of the dead.

Barbarian, stop! these kindred atoms claim
The feeling heart, the sympathetic tear:
Stop! and bethink thee of a brother's name,
Nor mock the weakness, thou must quickly share.

Ah, gracious God! when erring man has paid
The last sad forfeit of our guilty race,
Thy goodness bids earth's parent bosom shade
Our nature's ruin, and our form's disgrace.

From sin, dark principle of death, refin'd,
This ransom'd dust shall one day quit the tomb,
And rise, fit partner to the spotless mind,
In new-born glory, and unfading bloom.

While pensive wand'ring o'er this equal scene,
Where blended sleep the humble and the great,
Let wisdom whisper to our souls, how vain
The short distinctions of our mortal state.

From yon fair shrine, where letter'd W YKEHAM rests,
(It's G OTHIC beauties finish'd from his plan)
A warning voice to high, to low attests,
The sacred truth, that Manners MAKE THE M AN .

To death is destin'd all we seek below,
Except what virtue fixes for our own:
While the vain flourish of external show
Ends in the blazon'd hearse, and sculptur'd stone.

All wealth is poor, unless with gen'rous skill
The lib'ral hand it's trusted gift impart:
All pow'r is weak, but that which curbs the will,
All science vain, but that which mends the heart.

O blest with ev'ry talent, ev'ry grace,
Which native fire, or happy art supplies,
How short a period, how confin'd a space,
Must bound thy shining course below the skies!

For wider glories, for immortal fame,
Were all those talents, all those graces giv'n:
And may thy life pursue that noblest aim,
The final plaudit of approving heav'n.