Is there a whim-inspiring 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 judgement 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 and 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.