The noisy strings while venal idiots sweep, O'er her neglected lyre shall Virtue sleep? Nor, while false trophies deck the titled knave, Drop one poor tear upon the good man's grave? With trembling hand the mournful theme pursues; Rever'd instructor of my early youth! Whose words were wisdom and whose precepts truth; Who, sent o'er Learning's temple to preside, Deep in all Grecian, in all Roman lore, Skill'd in the page which later ages bore; In whom the Master was no odious term; Who knew'st to temper dignity with love, Submissive fears alike, and haughty threats above; Whose judgment sound youth's various bent could scan, And, while it taught the boy, foresaw the man; And train'd it up to virtue and to truth; Bold to reprove, yet eager to commend, Convey to ev'ry breast, in varied tone, The mingled feelings which oppress my own; The smile of candour and the look of praise; Thrill ev'ry bosom with my pow'rful line, -But vain the wish. Unskill'd to paint distress, Or garnish sorrow with a gaudy dress; To rear the torch, to cull the cypress leaf, And lead my feelings through a pomp of grief; My page no artificial numbers swell, Studious alone the simple truth to tell; Conscious of grief, a grief which passeth show, I want the trappings and the suits of woe. But must I fail then? No, lamented shade! E'en while I write, the tears unbidden start Ah little thought the Muse thy kindness rear'd, No arm of thine to guide their dubious way: This poor attempt, in which a grateful muse With Love's last meed thy honour'd Name pursues; And, worthily as her weak efforts can, Thus fond records the Friend, the Scholar, and the Man. |