Ill-fated IDA! soon must stamp your doom;
Like her o'erthrown, forever lost to fame,
No trace of science left you, but the name.
HARROW, July, 1805.
EPITAPH ON A BELOVED FRIEND.
Oh Boy! forever lov'd, for ever dear,
What fruitless tears have wash'd thy honour'd bier;
What sighs re-echoed to thy parting breath,