Frail man, when paper—even a rag like this,
Survives himself, his tomb, and all that's his!
LXXXIX.
And when his bones are dust, his grave a blank,
His station, generation, even his nation,
Become a thing, or nothing, save to rank
In chronological commemoration,
Some dull MS. Oblivion long has sank,
Or graven stone found in a barrack's station
In digging the foundation of a closet,[DB]