Classic Poem

Is Logan dead? and shall no lay
Due honours to his mem'ry pay!
Shall he, on friendship's tomb who sung,
Himself inspire no tuneful tongue?
Sweet was the music of thy strain,
And strong thy eloquence in vain;
Nor these could from misfortune save,
Nor rescue from an early grave:
Cold is the breast that genius fir'd,
And mute the tongue the muse inspir'd.
Thou'rt happy; — yet remembrance vain
Would still awake the plaintive strain,
And, while thy merits rise to view,
Recalls thy griefs and suff'rings too.
Thy frame, alas! disease opprest,
And anguish prey'd upon thy breast:
Ah! hapless living was thy doom,
And short thy passage to the tomb!
All ye, whose breasts with ardour burn,
Or melt with pity, weep his urn;
He keenly felt the sacred glow,
And gen'rous pity'd others woe.
And, ye censorious, cease to blame
What rather should your pity claim;
Perhaps your errors may be less,
But felt ye e'er like him distress?
O may thy wishes form'd below
At last their full completion know,
To sleep in death in pious rest,
And rise to mingle with the blest!