E’en in our ashes live their wonted fires.
For thee, who, mindful of the unhonoured dead,
Dost in these lines their artless tales relate;
If chance, by lonely Contemplation led, 95
Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,
Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,
‘Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn,
Brushing with hasty steps the dews away,
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. 100
‘There at the foot of yonder nodding beech,