Classic Poem

What have we here—a temple! if 'tis such,
Art has done little—if a shed, too much.
Four wooden pegs a wooden roof sustain,
Just wide enough to shield you from the rain
If in the middle bolt upright you stand,
Expos'd to all the winds on either hand;
This pride of Daisey-wood, how can I name?
And how inscribe it on the roll of fame?
It is not Tuscan, Saxon, nor yet Darie,
Commemorative, votive, or, historic;—
'Tis but an emblem of its Owner's mind,
Erect and firm by no false taste refin'd;
Of steady fabric, pointing to the skies;
A friendly beacon to inquiring eyes;
Open to all, by all reputed good,
And often prais'd when little understand.

With me, then, stranger! mourn departed worth,
Steel'd is the heart that can forbear to sigh;
Let deep regret call all thy sorrows forth—
Live as he liv'd—and fear not then to die.