Thy air that every gazer took,
Thy matchless eloquence of eye,
‘Thy spirits, frolicsome as good,
Thy courage, by no ills dismay’d,
Thy patience, by no wrongs subdued,
Thy gay good-humour—can they “fade?”
‘Perhaps—but sorrow dims my eye:
Cold turf, which I no more must view,
Dear name, which I no more must sigh,
A long, a last, a sad adieu!’