On some fond breast the parting soul relies;

Some pious drops the closing eye requires; E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries; E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.

For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonored dead, Dost in these lines their artless tale relate; If, 'chance, by lonely Contemplation led,

Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate;

Haply, some hoary-headed swain may say:

"Oft have we seen him, at the peep of dawn, Brushing, with hasty steps, the dews away,

To meet the Sun upon the upland lawn.

of yonder nodding beech,

That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,

His listless length, at noontide, would he stretch,

And pore upon the brook that babbles by.