They've left him to his long decay;
The banner waves above his head:
Funereal is their rich array,
But hark! how speak they of the dead.

In his own hall, they've pledg'd to him
'Mid mirth, and minstrelsy divine;
When, at the crystal goblet's brim
Hath flash'd, the od'rous rosy wine;
When viands from all lands afar
Have grac'd the shining, sumptuous board,
And _now_, they'd prove their vaunted star,
The Cobbold, of his priceless hoard.[7]

Hark! how they scandalize the _dead_!
They spake not thus,--(their patron _here_)
When they were proud to break his bread,
To watch his faintest smile, and fear
His latent frown; they did not speak
Of vices, follies, meanness: _then_
A _crime_ in him, had been, "the freak
Of youth," and "worthiest _he_, of men!"

Off with those garbs of woe, _false_ friends!
Those sadden'd visages, all feign'd!
Or have ye yet, some golden ends
To be, by Death's own liv'ries gain'd?
_Ye_ mourn the dead forsooth! who say
That which should shame the lordly hall
His late ancestral home! Away!