LXII.

Adieu, ye lays, that Fancy's flowers adorn, The soft amusement of the vacant mind! He sleeps in dust, and all the Muses mourn, He, whom each virtue fir'd, each grace refin'd, Friend, teacher, pattern, darling of mankind! He sleeps in dust.[7] Ah, how shall I pursue My theme! To heart-consuming grief resign'd, Here on his recent grave I fix my view, And pour my bitter tears. Ye flowery lays, adieu!