Classic Poem

If dying excellence deserves a tear,
If fond remembrance still is cherish'd here,
Can we persist to bid your sorrows flow
For fabled suff'rers and delusive woe?
Or with quaint smiles dismiss the plaintive strain,
Point the quick jest, indulge the comic vein,
Ere yet to buried Roscius we assign
One kind regret — one tributary line!

His fame require we act a tend'rer part:
His memory claims the tear you gave his art!

The gen'ral voice, the meed of mournful verse,
The splendid sorrows that adorned his hearse,
The throng that mourn'd as their dead favourite pass'd,
The grac'd respect that claim'd him to the last,
While Shakespeare's image from its hallow'd base
Seemed to prescribe the grave, and point the place,
Nor these, — nor all the sad regrets that flow
From fond fidelity's domestic woe, —
So much are Garrick's praise, so much his due,
As on this spot — one tear bestowed by you.

Amid the hearts which seek ingenuous fame,
Our toil attempts the most precarious claim!
To him whose mimic pencil wins the prize,
Obedient Fame immortal wreaths supplies:
Whate'er of wonder Reynolds now may raise,
Raphael still boasts contemporary praise:
Each dazzling light and gaudier bloom subdu'd,
With undiminish'd awe his works are view'd:
E'en Beauty's portrait wears a softer prime,
Touch'd by the tender hand of mellowing Time.

The patient Sculptor owns a humbler part,
A ruder toil, and more mechanic art;
Content with slow and tim'rous stroke to trace
The ling'ring line, and mould the tardy grace:
But once atchiev'd, tho' barbarous wreck o'erthrow
The sacred fane, and lay its glories low,
Yet shall the sculptur'd ruin rise to-day,
Grac'd by defect, and worshipp'd in decay;
Th' enduring record bears the artist's name,
Demands his honours, and asserts his fame.

Superior hopes the Poet's bosom fire;
Oh, proud distinction of the sacred lyre!
Wide as th' inspiring Phaebus darts his ray,
Diffusive splendour gilds his vot'ry's lay.
Whether the song heroic woes rehearse,
With epic grandeur, and the pomp of verse;
Or, fondly gay, with unambitious guile,
Attempt no prize but fav'ring beauty's smile;
Or bear dejected to the lonely grove
The soft despair of unprevailing love —
Whate'er the theme, thro' every age and clime
Congenial passions meet th' according rime;
The pride of Glory — Pity's sigh sincere —
Youth's earliest blush — and Beauty's virgin tear.

Such is their meed, their honours thus secure,
Whose arts yield objects, and whose works endure:
The Actor, only, shrinks from Time's award;
Feeble tradition is his mem'ry's guard;
By whose faint breath his merits must abide,
Unvouch'd by proof — to substance unallied!
E'en matchless Garrick's art, to Heaven resign'd,
No fix'd effect, no model leaves behind!

The grace of action , the adapted mien ,
Faithful as nature to the varied scene;
Th' expressive glance, whose subtle comment draws
Entranc'd attention, and a mute applause;
Gesture that marks, with force and feeling fraught,
A sense in silence, and a will in thought;
Harmonious speech , whose pure and liquid tone
Gives verse a music, scarce confess'd its own;
As light from gems assumes a brighter ray,
And cloath'd with orient hues, transcends the day!
Passion's wild break, and frown that awes the sense,
And every Charm of gentler Eloquence —
All perishable! like th' electric fire,
But strike the frame, and, as they strike, expire;
Incense too pure a bodied flame to bear,
Its fragrance charms the sense, and blends the air.

Where, then — while sunk in cold decay he lies,
And pale eclipse for ever veils those eyes —
Where is the blest memorial that ensures
Our Garrick's fame? — whose is the trust? — 'Tis yours.

And O! by every charm his art essay'd
To soothe your cares! — by ev'ry grief allay'd!
By the hush'd wonder which his accents drew!
By his last parting tear, repaid by you!
By all those thoughts, which many a distant night
Shall mark his memory with a sad delight!
Still in your hearts' dear record bear his name;
Cherish the keen regret that lifts his fame;
To you it is bequeathed, — assert the trust,
And to his worth — 'tis all you can — be just .
What more is due from sanctifying Time,
To cheerful wit and many a favor'd rhyme,
O'er his grac'd urn shall bloom, a deathless wreath,
Whose blossom'd sweets shall deck the mask beneath.
For these, — when Sculpture's votive toil shall rear
The due memorial of a loss so dear —
O loveliest mourner, gentle Muse! be thine
The pleasing woe to guard the laurell'd shrine.
As Fancy, oft by Superstition led
To roam the mansions of the sainted dead,
Has view'd, by shadowy eve's unfaithful gloom,
A weeping cherub on a martyr's tomb —
So thou, sweet Muse, hang o'er his sculptur'd bier,
With patient woe, that loves the ling'ring tear;
With thoughts that mourn — nor yet desire relief;
With meek regret, and fond enduring grief;
With looks that speak — He never shall return!
Chilling thy tender bosom, clasp his urn;
And with soft sighs disperse th' irrev'rent dust
Which Time may strew upon his sacred bust.