Classic Poem

Ah , Postumus, we all must go:
This keen North-Easter nips my shoulder;
My strength begins to fail; I know
You find me older;

I 've made my Will. Dear, faithful friend —
My Muse's friend and not my purse's!
Who still would hear and still commend
My tedious verses,

How will you live — of these deprived?
I've learned your candid soul. The venal, —
The sordid friend had scarce survived
A test so penal;

But you — Nay, nay, 'tis so. The rest
Are not as you: you hide your merit;
You, more than all, deserve the best
True friends inherit; —

Not gold, — that hearts like yours despise;
Not " spacious dirt " (your own expression),
No; but the rarer, dearer prize —
The Life's Confession!

You catch my thought? What! Can't you guess?
You, you alone, admired my Cantos; —
I've left you, P., my whole MS.,
In three portmanteaus!