Spirit of him, whose chastened soul
Could touch each chord of pure desire,
Whence, flown beyond the mind's control,
Thy brilliant thought, thy Druid fire?
Lost in thy manhood's chariest bloom,
O'er thee shall pity meekly mourn,
And many a Sylph, who haunts the gloom,
With twilight dews besprend thine urn.
Beside, thine airy harp' shall rest,
With wonted charms unskilled to play,
Or wildly moved in grief supprest,
Fling to the breeze its funeral lay.
Yet may the willow love to bend,
And there the gentler myrtle woo,
While softly sighs each passing friend,
"Ah! .mw-parser-output .wst-asc{font-variant:all-small-caps}.mw-parser-output .wst-asc-initials{white-space:nowrap}.mw-parser-output .wst-asc-initials>span:not(:first-child){padding-left:0.16em}.mw-parser-output .wst-asc-initials.wst-asc-initials-nospace>span:not(:first-child){padding-left:0}Yorick, bard of truth, adieu!"
1803.