that strain flows round the untimely tomb where riddell lies.

yes, pour, ye warblers! pour the notes of woe,

and soothe the virtues weeping o'er his bier:

the man of worth—and hath not left his peer!

is in his “narrow house,” for ever darkly low.

thee, spring! again with joy shall others greet;

me, memory of my loss will only meet.