10. Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,
If memory o’er their tomb no trophies[656] raise,
Where, through the long-drawn aisle, and fretted vault,
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.
11. Can storied urn, or animated bust,
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Can Honor’s voice provoke the silent dust,
Or Flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of death?
12. Perhaps, in this neglected spot, is laid
Some heart, once pregnant[657] with celestial fire;