20. Yet, even these bones from insult to protect,
Some frail memorial, still erected nigh,
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked,
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
21. Their name, their years, spelled by the unlettered Muse,
The place of fame and elegy supply;
And many a holy text around she strews,
That teach the rustic moralist to die.
22. For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,
This pleasing, anxious being e’er resigned,—