Sitting in Michael's Lap
Sweet William! Favored son of Erato,
Famed Midas of the quill from days of old,
Unchallenged master of thy vast domain
Whose every mean endeavor turned to gold;
Not since has this tired Globe beheld thy like!
No craftsman hast thy quarter so befit,
Whose dark laments might stir the hardest heart --
Or gentlest odes conceal a rapier wit.
Thy pen spun out thy soul in every stroke,
With matchless grace that was the Muses' pride;
Death holds thee not while still thy works endure,
A vessel where thy spirit might reside.
Thy words bring forth the secret hearts of men,
And feeble words from my unworthy pen.
"Nunc lento sonitu dicunt, morierus"
(When I hear the bell tolling softly for another, it says to me, "Thou must die.")