A heap of dust alone remains of thee;
’Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be!
Poets themselves must fall, like those they sung, 75
Deaf the praised ear, and mute the tuneful tongue.
Even he, whose soul now melts in mournful lays,
Shall shortly want the generous tear he pays;
Then from his closing eyes thy form shall part,
And the last pang shall tear thee from his heart, 80
Life’s idle business at one gasp be o’er,