"How poor the lot of the once-honour'd dead!
Perhaps the dust is  that we tread.
The learn'd, ambitious, politic, and great,
Statesman, and prelate, this alas! thy fate.
Cou'd not thy  yield her pastor room,
Cou'd not thy  supply thee with a tomb?
Was it for this thy losty genius soar'd,
Caress'd by monarchs and by crowds ador'd?
For this, thy hand o'er rivals cou'd prevail,
Grasping by turns the crosier and the seal?
Who dar'd on  meredian pow'r to frown,
And on aspiring  look down.
This thy gay morn, — but ere the day decline
Clouds gather, and adversity is thine.
Doom'd to behold thy country's fierce alarms,
What had thy trembling age to do with arms?
Thy lands dragoon'd, thy palaces in dust,
Why was thy life protracted to be curst?
Thy king in chains, — thyself by lawless might
Strip't of all pow'r, and exil'd from thy right.