O! gentle Cambridge! sadly say,
Why fates are so unkind
To snatch thy giant sons away,
Whilst pigmies stay behind?

6.

Horace and he were call'd, in haste,
From this vile earth to heav'n;
The cruel year not fully past,
Ætatis, fifty seven.

7.

So, on the tops of Lebanon,
Tall cedars felt the sword,
To grace, by care of Solomon,
The temple of the Lord.

8.

A tomb amidst the learned may
The western abbey give!
Like theirs, his ashes must decay,
Like theirs, his fame shall live.
9.

Close, carver, by some well cut books,
Let a thin busto tell,
In spite of plump and pamper'd looks,