He liv’d to die, but not to be forgott’n

He liv’d to die, but not to be forgott’n, Without a title save that his parents gave him,— A proud yet simple one indeed,— Such as almost a very babe might utter. Although the dust of his birth-dwelling’s long since trodd’n, He’s now, as was of yore, a glorious shining beam, On which our memories love to feed. His mother fondly watch’d his gentle stature: Himself the womb of a rare sparkling brain: And heaping, aye! unthought of world-wide wondrous fame With his enchanting pen:—the food, The fondest food of history, and the stage: ’Twas but a little cabinet that did contain The ponderous manuscripts which bore his goodly name— Those volumes so well understood. O god of bards, thou wert the greatest sage!