When his lov'd Child the Roman could not save,
Immortal Tully, from an early grave,
No common forms his home-felt passion kept;
The sage, the patriot, in the parent, wept.
And O! by grief ally'd, as join'd in fame,
The same thy loss, thy sorrows are the same.
She whom the Muses, whom the Loves deplore,
Even she, thy pride and pleasure, is no more:
In bloom of years, in all her virtue's bloom,
Lost to thy hopes, and silent in the tomb.