Is there a whim-inspired 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 judgment 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 the 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.