The world, its hopes, and fears, have passed away; No more its trifling thou shalt feel or see; Thy hopes are ripening in a brighter day, While these left buds thy monument shall be. When Rancor's aims have past in nought away, Enlarging specks discerned in more than thee, And beauties 'minishing which few display, -- When these are past, true child of Poesy, Thou shalt survive -- Ah, while a being dwells, With soul, in Nature's joys, to warm like thine, With eye to view her fascinating spells, And dream entranced o'er each form divine, Thy worth, Enthusiast, shall be cherished here, -- Thy name with him shall linger, and be dear. |