That shrine the sexton told me was thy tomb,
There where the hills of Wayne slope greenly down
To willowy Miami, near the pensive Town
Mournful without thee, — though its mold consume
Thy consecrated bones, may not inhume
Genius from proud remembrance; nay, Renown
Hath woven thy unfading laurel crown,
And o'er thy dust Love's amaranth shall bloom.
Well didst thou rear thy monument, not stone
Nor votive bronze; no mausoleum wrought
In burnished gold; no obelisk, world-shown,
To mark where monarch reigned or soldier fought:
My Poet shall to nobler fame be known
By what he builded of immortal thought.