Nor reared by wan degrees,
Which leaves an artist poor, and Art
An earldom richer all her years;)
To you, dead on your shield apart,
Be Ave! passed in tears.
’Twas virtue’s breath inflamed your lyre;
Heroic from the heart it ran;
Nor for the shedding of such fire
Lives, since, a manlier man.
And till your strophe sweet and bold