EPITAPH ON DR. GOLDSMITH. By W. WOTY

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 number'd in the Muses' train, Go tune the lyre, and imitate his strain; But if no Poet thou, reverse the plan, Depart in peace, and imitate the Man.