On Thomas Day, Esq

If pensive genius ever pour'd the tear Of votive anguish o'er the poet's bier; If drooping Britain ever knew to mourn In silent sorrow o'er the patriot's urn, Here let them weep their Day's untimely doom, And hang their fairest garlands o'er his tomb; For never poet's hand did yet consign So pure a wreath to virtue's holy shrine; For never patriot tri'd before to raise His country's welfare on so firm a base; Glory's bright form he taught her youth to see, And bade them merit freedom to be free. No sculptur'd marble need his worth proclaim, No herald's sounding style record his name, For long as sense and virtue fame can give, In his own works his deathless name shall live.