The peaceful hamlets of an hundred realms,
Have shrunk within the fretted register,
The silent scroll, named History—still the halls
Of national state or regal pomp are bright
With thy far-sought creations, costliest
Among the treasured trophies of the mind;
And as thy time on earth was consecrated
To sacred labours meet for holy walls—
So would I deem thy gifted spirit still,
Invested in its light of heavenly thoughts,