A far famed M.A.S.
Lament gentle hearers, whose classical rhymes
Spread the fame of your casket to far distant climes.
The fate of that poet, that man of all men,
That phoenix of bards, Eighteen hundred and ten.
On the last of December his poems he fired,
And then in the blaze of his glory, expired.
Like a phoenix in death, like a phoenix in life,
Had a son when he died, but while living no wife.
For lo we behold; when he sinks from our eyes,
From the tomb of his sire, a successor arise.
Who shall have, tho’ unwedded he live, like his sires
A son, and of age, at the time he expires.
We hope, like the chief, we have lost, of the Chest
That his son will appear the supporter confest,
And eke that for genius and spirit his lays
May equally merit, and meet with, our praise.
And though he may boast a less musical name
That brighter may prove his poetical fame.