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WITH wit and genuine humour, to dispel
From the desponding bosom gloomy care,
And bid the gushing tear, at the sad tale
Of hapless love or filial grief, to flow

From the full sympathizing heart, were thine;
These powers, O STERNE! but now thy fate demands
(No plumage nodding o'er the' emblazon'd hearse
Proclaiming honour where no virtue shone)
But the sad tribute of a heart-felt sigh!-
What though no taper cast its deadly ray,
Nor the full choir sing requiems o'er thy tomb,
The humbler grief of friendship is not mute;
And poor Maria, with her faithful kid,
Her auburn tresses carelessly entwined
With olive foliage, at the close of day,
Shall chant her plaintive vespers at thy grave.
Thy shade too, gentle Monk, 'mid awful night,
Shall pour libations from its friendly eye;
For erst his sweet benevolence bestow'd
Its generous pity, and bedew'd with tears
The sod which rested on thy aged breast.

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