Thy weary head, awhile to see
The later sports of earthly days,
How like what once enchanted thee?
Thy name, thy date, thy life declare—
Perhaps a queen, whose feathery band
A thousand maids have sighed to wear,
The brightest in thy beauteous land—
Perhaps a Helen, from whose eye
Love kindled up the flame of war—
Ah, me! do thus thy graces lie