The Muses, struck with horror and despair, Mourn their lov'd Mason, number'd with the dead, And, frantic, pluck the laurel from their hair, Placing the baleful cypress in its stead.
Mistaken Nine, your causeless grief restrain, Suppress each needless tear, each useless sigh, Nor, void of hope, continue to complain, For know, your fav'rite bard can never die.
The brazen monument, the marble bust, Through length of time, will moulder, and decay, The mortal frame return once more to dust, "The spirit, freed, enjoy eternal day."
