Low On His Funeral Couch He Lies!

Dear As The Light That Visits These Sad Eyes, Dear As The Ruddy Drops That Warm My Heart.

To Contemplation's Sober Eye. / Such Is The Race Of Man.

The Language Of The Age Is Never The Language Of Poetry, Except Among The French, Whose Verse, Where The Thought Or Image Does Not Support It, Differs In Nothing From Prose.

Hands That The Rod Of Empire Might Have Sway'd, Or Waked To Ecstasy The Living Lyre.

How Low, How Little Are The Proud, How Indigent The Great!