The object of his gaze—
Exclaims the man, “O, beauteous dot!—
Some men, methinks, will praise
Thee more than I, when ’neath the sod
My cold clay form is laid:—
When I th’ immortal path have trod,
They’ll talk of him that’s dead.” * * *
He strikes the bosom of his muse,
And chants in silent song
A hymn of joy, whilst he reviews