My fire-dried corpse lies here at rest,
My soul, smoke like, is soaring to be blest.
On a Monument intended to be erected for Mr. Rowe, by his Widow.
Written before Mr. Dryden’s was set up.
BY MR. POPE.
Thy reliques, Rowe, to this fair shrine we trust,
And, sacred, place by Dryden’s awful dust.
Beneath a rude and nameless stone he lies,
To which thy tomb shall gain inquiring eyes:
Peace to thy gentle shade, and endless rest,