Say, shall the muse o'er the fall'n hero's bier Th' eternal monument of glory raise, Swell the loud Paean of harmonious praise, And high ambition's banner'd trophies rear, While silent flows the tributary tear Which to her fav'rite son she sorrowing pays, Unstrung her useless lyre, and mute her lays?— But, hark! a strain divine now strikes mine ear: The sacred bard his independent fame Shall from his own immortal verse receive! Soon dies the warrior's and the statesman's name, His aid if no recording poet give; But wreaths of endless bloom shall Warton claim, While wit, while learning, and while fancy live!
