Beneath this earth, strew'd lightly, lies the head
Of one whom Death himself had learnt to dread,
Scarce venturing to claim; and falter'd much
Ere he allow'd his threatening stroke to touch
That sacred presence. These bright eyes from far
He view'd; from far that face ray'd like a star.
On whom when fame of letters lustre drew,
He took it as his right, and richer grew
By his own gifts to learning; whose serene
Severity of manners seem'd to have been
Temper'd by woman's softness; whose good name,
In later as in early years the same,
Stood firm; his fortune equal to his fame.
His life so short, that not in haste he seem'd;
So long, that weary he might not be deem'd:
That such a one is dead, can it be dream'd? R. WI.