On Southey's Tomb
Few tears, nor those too warm, are shed
By poet over poet dead.
Without premeditated lay
To catch the crowd, I only say,
As over Southey's slab I bend,
The best of mortals was my friend.
By poet over poet dead.
Without premeditated lay
To catch the crowd, I only say,
As over Southey's slab I bend,
The best of mortals was my friend.
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