Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd Muse,

The place of fame and elegy supply;

And many a holy text around she strews,

That teach the rustic moralist to die.

1

For who, to dumb Forgetfulness a prey,

This pleasing, anxious being e'er resign'd;

Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,

Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind ?