With him, the same dire fate attending Rome,

Ill-fated IDA! soon must stamp your doom;

Like her o'erthrown, forever lost to fame,

No trace of science left you, but the name.

HARROW, July, 1805.

[pg 15] 

[pg 15]

EPITAPH ON A BELOVED FRIEND.

Oh Boy! forever lov'd, for ever dear,

What fruitless tears have wash'd thy honour'd bier;

What sighs re-echoed to thy parting breath,

Whilst thou wert struggling in the pangs of death.

Could tears have turn'd the tyrant in his course,

Could sighs have check'd his dart's relentless force;

Could youth and virtue claim a short delay,

Or beauty charm the spectre from his prey.

Thou still had'st liv'd, to bless my aching sight,

Thy comrade's honour, and thy friend's delight:

Though low thy lot, since in a cottage born,

No titles did thy humble name adorn,

 Prev. P 22/87 next