Whose open hand strew’d o’er the lowly scene,
Plenty’s gay smiles, and joy’s delighted mien;
Whose presence cheer’d, with animating ray,
Life’s highest walks, and made the gay more gay:
Fitted alike to grace the lordly dome,
Or in the cottage make contentment bloom:
Thy virtues, Delaval, we long shall mourn,
And wash, with unfeign’d tears, thy hallow’d urn.
No laurel wreath, nor high poetic lays
Need bloom, or live in song to sound thy praise;