Crown’d with the fretted scroll, and sleeping bust, 70
And guiltless trappings, which poor wits deride
With little spite and moralising pride,
The grateful tribute[’s] paid the glorious dead—
The wise who governed and the brave who bled.
Long, long, ye sacred dead, in peace remain,
Ere yet your hallowed home resounds again,
With groans resound and the loud sighs which tell,
Another Rutland bids the sun farewell;
Ere yet the mourning crowd’s slow steps attend