Ah! what avail’d the solemn-moving Herse?
The fabled-mantled Cars, the Fun’ral Throng?
Grav’d on his Monument the soothing Verse?
The Priests, the Torches, and the choral Song?
Misjudging Wretch! while thou with Hand profuse,
Thy Treasures on this Mansion didst entail,
And pour down Riches on the vow’d Recluse,
Thine Orphan Babes partook a scanty Meal:
Thy widow’d Fair, her Cheek bedew’d with Tears,
Approach’d with suppliant Knee the Cloister-Gate,
There oft disclos’d in vain, her poignant Cares,
Returning still to weep her hapless Fate.
FINIS.