Commend Me To Sterling Honesty

He Turn'd His Charger As He Spake, Upon The River Shore, He Gave His Bridle Reins A Shake, Said, "adieu For Evermore, My Love, And Adieu For Evermore."

What Skilful Limner E'er Would Choose To Paint The Rainbow's Varying Hues, Unless To Mortal It Were Given To Dip His Brush In Dyes Of Heaven?

Call It Not Vain: They Do Not Err Who Say That When The Poet Dies Mute Nature Mourns Her Worshipper, And Celebrates His Obsequies.

Hard Toil Can Roughen Form And Face, And Want Call Quench The Eye's Bright Grace.

The Misery Of Keeping A Dog Is His Dying So Soon. But, To Be Sure, If He Lived For Fifty Years And Then Died, What Would Become Of Me?