EPITAPH.
Beauty, who softly walkest all thy days,
In silken garment to the tunes of praise;—
Lover, whose dreamings by the green-bank'd river,
Where once she wander'd, fain would last for ever;—
King, whom the nations scan, adoring scan.
And shout 'a god,' when sin hath mark'd thee man;—
Bard, on whose brow the Hyblan dew remains,
Albeit the fever burneth in the veins;—
Hero, whose sword in tyrant's blood is hot;—
Sceptic, who doubting, wouldst be doubted not;—
Man, whosoe'er thou art, whate'er thy trust;—
Respect thyself in me;—thou treadest dust.
