Low on his funeral couch he lies!
The still small voice of gratitude.
When love could teach a monarch to be wise, And gospel-light first dawn'd from Bullen's eyes.
Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray; Along the cool sequester'd vale of life They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.
I shall be but a shrimp of an author.
We frolic while 'tis May.