IN that remote and solitary place,
Which the seas wash, and circling hills embrace,
Where those lone walls amid the groves arise,
All that remains of thee, fam'd  lies.
Thither, sequester'd shade, creation's nook,
The wand'ring Muse her pensive journey took,
Curious to trace the statesman to his home,
And moralize at leisure o'er his tomb:
She came not, with the pilgrim, tears to shed,
Mutter a vow, or trifle with a bead,
But such a sadness did her thoughts employ,
As lives within the neighbourhood of joy.
Reflecting much upon the mighty shade,
His glories, and his miseries, she said: