Ye muses, pour the pitying tear
For Pollio snatch'd away:
For had he liv'd another year!
—He had not dy'd to-day.

O, were he born to bless mankind,
In virtuous times of yore,
Heroes themselves had fallen behind!
—Whene'er he went before.

How sad the groves and plains appear,
And sympathetic sheep:
Even pitying hills would drop a tear!
—If hills could learn to weep.

His bounty in exalted strain
Each bard might well display:
Since none implor'd relief in vain!
—That went reliev'd away.

And hark! I hear the tuneful throng;
His obsequies forbid.
He still shall live, shall live as long
—As ever dead man did.

Oliver Goldsmith.