THE PRINTER’S EPITAPH.
Here lies his form in pi,
Beneath this bank with briers overgrown;
How many cases far unworthier lie
’Neath some imposing stone!
No column points our loss,
No sculptured caps his history declare;
Although he lived a follower of the cross,
And member of the bar.
The golden rule he prized,
And left it as a token of his love;
And all his deeds, corrected and revised,
Are registered above.
The copy of his wrongs,
The proofs of all his pi-ety are there,
And the fair title, which to truth belong
Will prove his title fair.
Though now, in death’s em-brace,
A mould-ering heap our luckless brother lies,
He’ll re-appear on Gabriel’s royal-chase,
And frisk-it to the skies.