LXI.

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 fired, each grace refined, Friend, teacher, pattern, darling of mankind! He sleeps in dust. Ah! how should I pursue My theme! To heart-consuming grief resigned, Here, on his recent grave I fix my view, And pour my bitter tears.--Ye flowery lays, adieu!