An hour must come, when thou shalt hear with rage
Thyself traduc'd, and curse a thankless age;
Nor yet for this decline the gen'rous strife,
These ill, brave man, shall quit thee with thy life;
Alive though stain'd by every abject slave,
Secure of fame, and justice in the grave.
Ah! no — when once the mortal yields to fate,
The blast of Fame's sweet trumpet sounds too late,
Too late to stay the spirit on its flight,
Or sooth the new inhabitant of light;
Who hears regardless, while fond man, distress'd,
Hangs on the absent, and laments the blest.