Still as a tombstone, never to be moved,
On some good man or woman unreproved
Lays its eternal weight; or fix’d as stands
A marble courser by the sculptor’s hands,
Placed on the hero’s grave. Along their face,
The big round drops coursed down with silent pace,
Conglobing on the dust. Their manes, that late
Circled their arched necks, and waved in state,
Trail’d on the dust, beneath the yoke were spread,
And prone to earth was hung their languid head: