O, Headley! when, from this cloud-vested sphere, The guardian power thy fainting spirit bore To realms where sorrow heaves her sigh no more; In that dread hour at me — his icy spear Death shook — but Mercy saw my Laura's tear, She held his arm, and bade his rage be o'er: Else, long ere this, dear shade, th' unprompted lore Had flown in mournful cadence o'er thy bier. Go then from earth, thou spirit of finer mould, All bright in fancy's gems, arranged by taste: Go curious Critic of our Bards of old, Search other lays with seraph accents grac'd; Go — and with theirs join thy impassion'd lyre— They hear, they hail thee to th' eternal choir.
