Classic Poem

Which most deserve, or most receive reward
The Sage's counsels, or the warrior's sword?

This building, ancient and decayed
Too plainly wants the artist's aid,
To make it as of old it stood
A hermitage within a wood
But graced with all that might display
The architecture of that day.

A thousand might the pile renew
To make it last an age or two;
The columns, now, by time defaced
By able hands might be replaced,
But who by friendship, skill, or care
The time worn owner can repair?

In years, advanced to eighty-four,
'Tis time, almost to shut the door,
To bid a troop of mourners come
To attend the body to the tomb
In earth's cold bosom to inter
The patriot, sage, philosopher,
To witness rites devoutly paid
To him whose memory cannot fade.

Oh no! — may ages intervene
Before they drop the closing scene!
(Would heaven admit so bold a prayer
What numbers would not send it there? )
Long be unheard the funeral bell
The last address, the long farewell,
For, when he dies, he merits all
The fame, that men immortal call,

The public grief, a nation's tears —
To him no monument it rears,
Or that alone which suits him best,
That generous feeling in the breast,
Familiar, to each worthy mind,
Mis acting well the part assigned.

But now behold! — the mountain shrouds
His summit in a veil of clouds!
Ah while I gaze, the honoured hill
In mists of night grows darker still;
Does this announce approaching fate? —
Prolong, ye powers, his vital date
'Till to the grave he late descends
Where every human prospect ends,
But Reason, Truth, Reflection brings
A new and nobler scene of things.