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,