Plays like a sun-beam o’er his silver hair,
As if the happy spirit in its flight
Had left a saint-like glory trembling there.
Yet tho’ some skilful hand may softly paint
The noble form and features we adore,
Such deeds as thine are left, Oh happy Saint!
Are left alone for Memory to restore.
And still thy virtues like a soft perfume
That rises from a bed of fading flowers,
Immortal as thyself, shall bud and bloom