A Bard's Epitaph

      Is there a whim-inspired fool,      Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule,      Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool,      Let him draw near;      And owre this grassy heap sing dool,      And drap a tear.       Is there a bard of rustic song,      Who, noteless, steals the crowds among,      That weekly this area throng,      O, pass not by!      But, with a frater-feeling strong,      Here, heave a sigh.       Is there a man, whose judgment clear      Can others teach the course to steer,      Yet runs, himself, life's mad career,      Wild as the wave,      Here pause-and, thro' the starting tear,      Survey this grave.       The poor inhabitant below      Was quick to learn the wise to know,      And keenly felt the friendly glow,      And softer flame;      But thoughtless follies laid him low,      And stain'd his name!       Reader, attend! whether thy soul      Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole,      Or darkling grubs this earthly hole,      In low pursuit:      Know, prudent, cautious, self-control      Is wisdom's root.