Whose tomb, though small, for all he loved had room:
And, O ye rocks!—schist, gneiss, whate’er ye be,
Ye varied strata!—names too hard for me—
Sing, “Oh, be joyful!” for your direst foe
By death’s fell hammer is at length laid low.
Ne’er on your spoils again shall W—— riot.
Clear up your cloudy brows, and rest in quiet—
He sleeps—no longer planning hostile actions,
As cold as any of his petrifactions;
Enshrined in specimens of every hue,