What though the great,
With costly pomp, and aromatic sweets,
Embalmed his poor remains; or through the dome
A thousand tapers shed their gloomy light,
While solemn organs to his parting soul
Chaunted slow orisons; say, by what mark
Dost thou discern him from the lowly swain,
Whose mouldering bones beneath the thorn-bound turf,
Long lay neglected.
Glynn.