Ah, Postumus, we all must go:
This keen North-Easter nips my shoulder;
My strength begins to fail; I know
You find me older;
I've made my Will. Dear, faithful friend—
My Muse's friend and not my purse's!
Who still would hear and still commend
My tedious verses,
How will you live—of these deprived?
I've learned your candid soul. The venal,—
The sordid friend had scarce survived
A test so penal;
But you—Nay, nay, 'tis so. The rest
Are not as you: you hide your merit;
You, more than all, deserve the best
True friends inherit;—
Not gold,—that hearts like yours despise;
Not "spacious dirt" (your own expression),
No; but the rarer, dearer prize—
The Life's Confession!
You catch my thought? What! Can't you guess?
You, you alone, admired my Cantos;—
I've left you, P., my whole MS.,
In three portmanteaus!