An Elegy to the Memory of a Friend.
When worthless grandeur swells the trump of fame,
And venal titles on the marble shine,
To breathe its tribute to a worthy name,
Should not the task, O, generous muse, be thine.
If e’er the breast with pity prone to bleed,
The gentle feelings, or the judgment strong,
Deserv’d, sweet maid, the tribute of thy meed;
’Tis due to him to whom these lines belong.