EPITAPH OF THE LIVING AUTHOR.
189
[Translation.]
EPITAPH OF THE LIVING AUTHOR.
O wayfarer, beneath his household shrine
Here Cowley lies, closed in a little den;
A life too empty and his lot combine
To give him rest from all the toils of men.
Not shining with unseemly shows of want,
Nor noble with the indolence of ease;
Fearless of spirit as a combatant
With mob-loved wealth and all its devotees.
That yon may fairly speak of him as dead,
Behold how little earth contents him now!
Pray, wayfarer, that all his cares be fled.
And that the earth lie lightly on his brow.
Strew flowers here, strew roses soon to perish,
For the dead life joys in all flowers that blow;
Crown with sweet herbs. bank blossoms high, to cherish
The poet's ashes that are yet aglow.
Henry Morley.
