Life in the high solemnity of verse
Thou hast; for thine was an immortal song:
And here thy friend, upon thy mournful hearse,
Layeth a praise, that doth thy strain no wrong.

Where is another gift, to honour thee!
Not passionate prayers that touch not any fate;
Not cries thou can'st not hear, tears can'st not see:
But strains of Music sounding at Death's gate.

Thy life was full of friends: now, at the last,
Take thou a friend's farewell, from this thy friend!
Thy life, of sunlight, and of joy, is past:
But beauty, that lives once, lives without end!