Ode to the Memory of Mr. Inchbald

What time the weak-ey'd Owl, on twilight wing Slow borne, her vesper scream'd to Eve; and rouz'd The lazy wing of Bat With Beetle's sullen hum, Friendship, and she, the maid of pensive mien, Pale Melancholy point my sorrowing steps To meditate the dead And give my Friend a tear. Here let me panse—and pay that tear I owe: Silent it trickles down my cheek, and drops Upon the recent sod That lightly clasps his heart. But ah! how vain—Nor flatt'ry's pow'r, nor wealth's, Nor friendship's tear, nor widow'd ANNA'S VOICE, Sweet as the harps of Heav'n, Can move the tyrant Death. Hence ye impure!—for hark—around his grave The Sisters chaste, the Sisters whom he lov'd, In nine-fold cadence Chaunt immortal harmony. 'Tis done—'tis done —The well-earn'd laurel spreads Its verdant foliage o'er his honour'd clay: Again the Muses sing— Thalia's was the deed. Thou honest man, farewell!—I wou'd not stain Thy worth with praise—yet not the bright-hair'd King' Who wooes the rosy morn, And west'ring skirts the sky With ruddy gold and purple, e'er shall see Thy likeness—nor yon paly Crescent call Her weeping dews to kiss A turf more lov'd than thine.