To think that a heart in humanity clad
Should make, like the brutes, such a desolate end,
And depart from the light without leaving a friend.
Bear soft his bones over the stones!
Though a pauper, he’s one whom his Maker yet owns.
Thomas Noel.
ON LYTTON
WE know him, out of Shakespeare’s art,
And those fine curses which he spoke—
The Old Timon with his noble heart,