As the fond mother, o'er the sable bier Of her lov'd son, lets fall a lucid tear; So Learning sighs around her Johnson's shrine, And Genius mourns, attended by the Nine; E'en great Apollo tunes his muffled Lyre To strains of woe, and joins the weeping choir! Britons, attend, and, while each heaving heart Feels England's loss, and, feeling, bears a part; Be it his task to rear her drooping age, To millions yet unborn transmit her splendid page! Lincoln's Inn-Fields.
