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.