Madam! when sorrowing o'er the virtuous dead,
The gentlest solace of the tears we shed,
Is, to surviving excellence to turn,
And honour there those merits that we mourn.
The Muse, whose hand fair Brunswick's ashes strew
With votive flowers, would weave a wreath for You;
But living worth forbids th’ applausive lay.
Therefore, repressing all respect, would say,
She proffers silently her simple strain;
If you approve — she has not toil'd in vain!