Shall monumental busts arise
To deck some hero's sanguine fame!
Shall trophies charm the curious eyes,
Reared but in mockery of a name?
And all this vain parade of show
Tell, that some monster lies below?
Yes, let them rise, let pensioned bards
Lament in flattery's venal lays;
Time with unaltered truth awards
The equal meed of well earned praise;
In vain shall splendid verse presume
To gild ambition's treacherous tomb;
No bribes can bid the incense burn
Round titled frailty's wintry urn;
Oblivion's secret canker steals
To blot the useless name, which vice reveals.
But to the good, the wise, the great,
No terror sends impending fate;
Tho no bright star their steps attend,
No public glory crown their end,
Theirs is the fame, that charms the good,
"The still, small voice of gratitude,"
Love's sacred tear, religion's prayer,
And all that lifts the soul, and soothes despair.
Such be thy praise, lamented .mw-parser-output .wst-asc{font-variant:all-small-caps}.mw-parser-output .wst-asc-initials{white-space:nowrap}.mw-parser-output .wst-asc-initials>span:not(:first-child){padding-left:0.16em}.mw-parser-output .wst-asc-initials.wst-asc-initials-nospace>span:not(:first-child){padding-left:0}Edes,
Dear be thy memory to the just;
Silent in life, thy generous deeds
Embalm with fragrant sweets thy dust.
They breathe in every form confest,
They live in sorrow's grateful breast.
Friend of the poor, thy cheering voice,
Could hush the trembling orphan's sigh,
Bid the faint heart with hope rejoice,
And teach the righteous, how to die:
Oft has the perished form of grief
Found in thy smiles its wished relief,
Oft bleeding misery learned to bless
The hand, that closed the wounds of deep distress.
Nor less shall friendship fondly own
The hours of bright, domestic ease;
When all the parent's virtues shone,
So mild to win, so formed to please:
No fairer boon can mortals know,
No richer blessing Heaven bestow.
And are these scenes forever fled,
Where oft my soul, with cares opprest,
Indulged the social joys, which shed be
Delicious sunshine thro the breast?
Ah, soothing scenes! ah, happy hours!
Swept, like a meteor, from the sky,
No more I hail your gentler powers;
The storm has past, the ruins lie.
O'er the sad wreck unsettled glooms prevail,
And to the startled soul unfold the painful tale.
Yet, sainted shade, tho pity mourn,
With fondest reverence o'er thy doom,
The wreaths, that shade thy honored urn,
Shall live in hope's perennial bloom;
And while the muse her homage pays
In humble, not unhallowed lays,
While rapt affection loves to trace
Each favorite look, each social grace,
Heard from the heavens the voice of peace
Shall bid each anxious murmuring ceases
Blest are the dead, whose souls are pure,
Their sufferings past, their glory sure.