Say, wert thou any such memento lone,
Of bard who wrote for bread, and got a stone?
How many nations slumber on their deeds.
The all that's left them of their mighty race?
How may heroes' bosoms, wars, and creeds
Have sought in stilly death a resting place,
Since thou first gave thy presence to the air,
Thou, who art looking scarce the worse for wear!
Oft may each wave have travell'd to the shore,
That ends the vasty ocean's unknown sway,