Whose wisdom, worth, and eloquence, combin'd,
Earn'd the just tribute of the good and great,
Ensur'd a deathless wreath for coming days--
The poor man's blessing, and the rich one's praise!

Relentless Death!--could _no_ one else suffice?
No less invaluable prize be found?
But must _he_ fall a noble sacrifice
And early victim to thy fatal wound!
Thou stern and merciless destroyer, say,
Why didst thou blight his brief but glorious day?

It is not Albion only who deplores.--
All sympathising Europe wails his doom;
And bright-eyed Freedom hastes from Western shores
To drop a grateful tear upon his tomb;
And fondly hovering round his slumbering shade
Guards the lorn spot where her best friend is laid.

Now, stay my muse--for worthier hands than thine
Will twine the laurel round his hallow'd bust;
And raise in happier and more polish'd line
A splendid trophy to his sacred dust;
When thy untaught and unpretending lay
Shall be forgotten and have pass'd away.

Yet, ere thy chords are mute, oh, once again
My trembling lyre let me touch thy string!
And in a humble, but a heartfelt strain
Of him, the much-lov'd child of Genius sing;