The feather, whence the pen Was shaped that traced the lives of these good men, Dropped from an angel's wing.

Of friends, however humble, scorn not one.

Sweet Mercy! to the gates of heaven This minstrel lead, his sins forgiven; The rueful conflict, the heart riven With vain endeavour, And memory of Earth's bitter leaven Effaced forever.

The bosom-weight, your stubborn gift, That no philosophy can lift.

Here must thou be, O man, Strength to thyself - no helper hast thou here - Here keepest thou thy individual state: No other can divide with thee this work, No secondary hand can intervene To fashion this ability. 'Tis thine, The prime and vital principle is thine In the recesses of thy nature, far From any reach of outward fellowship, Else 'tis not thine at all.

The memory of the just survives in Heaven.

O dearer far than light and life are dear.