[1774.]
What though no trophies peer above his dust,
Nor sculptured conquests deck his sober bust;
What though no earthly thunders sound his name,
Death gives him conquest, and our sorrows fame:
One sigh reflection heaves, but shuns excess—
More should we mourn him, did we love him less.
PARODY ON [BYROM'S] "MY TIME, OH YE MUSES."
[Woodbridge, about 1774.]