A PRINTER’S EPITAPH.
Here lies a form—place no imposing stone
To mark the head, where weary it is lain;
’Tis matter dead!—its mission being done,
To be distributed to dust again.
The body’s but the type, at best, of man,
Whose impress is the spirit’s deathless page;
Worn out, the type is thrown to pi again,
The impression lives through an eternal age.