Classic Poem

Sit down, Mr. Clipstone, and take
These hints, while my feelings are fresh;
My uncle, Sir Lionel Lake,
Has journey'd the way of all flesh.
His heirs would in marble imprint
His merits aloft o'er his pew —
Allow me the outline to hint —
To finish, of course, rests with you.

And first, with a visage of wo,
Carve two little cherubs of love,
Lamenting to lose one below
They never will look on above.
And next, in smooth porphyry mould,
(You cannot well cut them too small)
Two lilliput goblets, to hold
The tears that his widow lets fall.

Where charity seeks a supply
He leaves not his equal behind:
I'm told there is not a dry eye
In the School for the Indigent Blind.
Then chisel (not sunk in repose,
But in alto relief , to endure,)
An orderly line of round O's
For the money he gave to the poor.

I league not in rhyme with the band
Who elevate sound over sense:
Where Vanity bellows " expand, "
Humility whispers " condense. "
Then mark, with your mallet and blade,
To paint the defunct to the life,
Four stars for his conduct in trade,
And a blank for his love of his wife.

'Tis done — to complete a design,
In brevity rivalling Greece,
Imprint me a black dotted line
For the friends who lament his decease.
Thus letter'd with merited praise,
Ere long shall our travel-fraught youth
Turn back from the false Pere-la-Chaise
To gaze on my Tablet of Truth.