Prais'd by thy pen, what man would dread to die, To rise again in immortality? For, by thy magic verse, 'tis thine to give New life to those who early cease to live. Thus COOK, tho' murder'd on a barb'rous strand, His limbs all mangled by a savage band, Dy'd but to live in thy immortal verse, Where wreaths unfading deck his sable hearse. So thy lov'd friend, cut off in full-blown prime, Cropt like some flow'r which blows before it's time, Fell but to rise by thy inchanting lay, With brighter splendor to the latest day!
