Though as the dews of morning short thy date, Though sorrow look'd on thee, and said "Be mine!" Yet with a holy ardour, Bard divine, I burn — I burn to share thy glorious fate, Above whate'er of honours, or estate, This transient world can give. I would resign, With rapture Fortune's choicest gifts for thine, More truly noble, more sublimely great. For thou hast gain'd the prize of well-tried worth, That prize, which from thee never can be riven; Thine, Henry, is a deathless name on earth, Thine, amaranthine wreaths, new pluck'd in Heaven! By what aspiring child, of mortal birth, Could more be ask'd? To whom might more be given?
