Can honor's voice provoke the silent dust, or flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of death?
I shall be but a shrimp of an author.
Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate, Beneath the good how far,-but far above the great.
Each in his narrow cell forever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.
Hands that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.