Omar is dead, who loved so well his wine;
Above his moldering tomb the roses twine.
And Horace now, for all his Golden Mean,
Is nameless dust upon the Esquiline.

It matters not or sad or glad the strain,
Each sings his hour and goes, nor comes again.
Whate'er he was or had or hoped, is gone;
His Songs alone immortal now remain,

What then will stay, my Friend, for you to guess
Of me, who pass to utter nothingness?
Who have no songs to echo in your heart
When Death shall make my present little less?

Oh, whensoe'er you turn the pages through
Where smiling Horace bares his heart to view, —
When Omar's muted strings wake sweet regret, —
Pause at the leaf and think: " He loved this too. "