Adieu, sweet Bard! to each fine Feeling true, Thy Virtues many, and thy Foibles few; Those form'd to charm e'en vicious Minds, and these With harmless Mirth the social Soul to please. Another's Woe thy Heart could always melt; None gave more free, for none more deeply felt. Sweet Bard, adieu! thy own harmonious Lays Have sculptur'd out thy Monument of Praise; Yes — these survive to Time's remotest Day While drops the Bust, and boastful Tombs decay. Reader! if numbered in the Muses Train, Oh tune the Lyre, and imitate his Strain; But if no Poet thou, reverse the Plan, Depart in Peace, and imitate the Man.
