CONCLUSION. Go forth, my Song, upon thy venturous way; And graced thy numbers with no friendly name, Whose partial zeal might smooth thy path to fame. There was—and O! how many sorrows crowd Into these two brief words !—there was a claim By generous friendship given-had fate allow'd, It well had bid thee rank the proudest of the proud! All angel now-yet little less than all, While still a pilgrim in our world below! What 'vails it us that patience to recall, Which hid its own, to sooth all other woe; What 'vails to tell, how Virtue's purest glow Shone yet more lovely in a form so fair: And, least of all, what 'vails the world should know, That one poor garland, twined to deck thy hair, Is hung upon thy hearse, to droop and wither there! |