Classic Poem

Mourn muses, mourn, your greatest gallant dies,
Who still in state did court your sacred train;
Your minion Murray, Albions sweetest swain,
Who soar'd so high, now low neglected lyes.
If of true worth the world had right esteem'd
His lofty thoughts, what bounds could have confined?
But fortune, feard to match with such a mind,
Where all his due, and not her gift had seem'd.
Fair nymphs, whose brood doth stand with time at strife,
Dare death presume, heavens darlings thus to da'unt?
To flattering fancies then in vain you vaunt,
That you for ever will prolong a life.
He grac'd your band, and not your bays his brow;
You happy were in him, he not by you.