When Music, heavenly maid, was young

By fairy hands their knell is rung; By forms unseen their dirge is sung; There Honour comes, a pilgrim gray, To bless the turf that wraps their clay; And Freedom shall awhile repair, To dwell a weeping hermit there!

Too nicely Jonson knew the critic's part; Nature in him was almost lost in Art.

Well may your hearts believe the truths I tell: 'T is virtue makes the bliss, where'er we dwell.

How sleep the brave who sink to rest By all their country's wishes blest!

In numbers warmly pure and sweetly strong.

To fair Fidele's grassy tomb Soft maids and village hinds shall bring Each opening sweet of earliest bloom, And rifle all the breathing spring.