With what of woful else is said or sung,
And trips up every word with lisping tongue.
The maudlin audience, from the couches round,
Hum their assent, responsive to the sound.
And are not now the poet’s ashes blest?
Now lies the turf not lightly on his breast?
They pause a moment, and again the room
Rings with his praise. Now will not roses bloom,
Now, from his relics, will not violets spring,
And o’er his hallowed urn their fragrance fling?