Written by R. Douglass, Jr., and recited by him at the Musical festival given in St. Thomas' Church, May 24th, 1844.

What means this gathering? thousands seem to crowdWith murmuring voices, deep, but yet not loud;They gaze with eager eyes, and pressing near,Methinks on many cheek I see a tear.A tone of sorrow doth the mass pervade,And grief hath here bestowed her deepest shade;No one is joyous here,--no one seems gladBut the childhood, youth, and age, all, all, are sad.And why is this--the loved and the admired,Who with true pleasure every breast inspired,Whose skill electric left its vivid mark,And roused to action each harmonious spark.He who for years, delighted grave and gay,The great musician, he hath passed away.On him no more shall gaze a mortal eye,But on the thoughts he left, which cannot die;Immortal like the soul, and those who grieve,Can gather from them much that may relieve.Who hath not felt his viol's wond'rous powerUnequall'd oft in pleasure's hour;Who hath joyed to hear his bugle's note,As with surpassing melody it brokeForth on the air, and filled each listening earWith rapture, such as memory holds dear?The mighty master wakened thoughts of love,By softly breathing strains as from above;A warlike feeling in each warrior rose;The fables Amphion, with enchanting tones,T'is said could even move the insensate stone;But he whom we deplore, with magic skillCould soothe the passions of mankind at will;And when with dire intent, men spurned the laws,He changed their purpose, gaining their applause,Who can forget his ever winning smile,His jovial heart, his life so void of guile,His ready eagerness to serve a friend,Which gave a charm that nothing else can lend;And with what willingness he would impartTo all knowledge of his heavenly art?Oh! there are those, who to a foreign land,Followed the light his genius shed; a band,Who shared the glories of his well-earned fame,Whose hearts in unison revere his name.They knew him best, his loss they most deplore.Their gushing tears proclaim no more.

And now behold beneath the tearful skies,Proceed the child of genius' obsequies;Grief leads the solemn train, with trembling pace,And friendship follows, sorrowful her face;Then music, pensive, gazing on the ground,Her lute in mourning shrouded gives no sound.More eloquent of feeling this I weenThan labored composition could have been.And then comes prejudice, with haughty nod,Who fetters Genius--scorns the word of God,Rules o'er the nation with iron heel,Forbidding cowards show that which they feel.Ah! there are those who with this master grewFrom youth to age--their number is not few.Who from his talents much of pleasure gained,Yet would not pay the last debt that remained;They would not follow to his narrow bed,Nor show respect for the distinguished dead.Short-sighted men! Alas! how much they erred,They would have gained new honor not conferred.The light of genius sheds a brighter ray.When time hath driven obscuring clouds away.More dazzling still will be its lambent flames,When all forgotten are the very namesOf slaves to prejudice. Oblivion's pallShall hide the record of their rise and fall.

Now in the earth is placed the mortal partOf him whose harmony entranced each heart,And music mournfully breathes o'er the deadThe dirge that for a mighty spirit fled,*He had composed. Tears flowed from every eye,Sorrowing that one so talented should die.Weep not that death has quenched his living fire,Johnson we trust has joined the immortal choir!