Epigram 2: I hear, O friend, the fatal news

I hear, O friend, the fatal news
Of Heraclitus’ death.
A sudden tear my cheek bedews,
And sighs suppress my breath.
For I must often call to mind,
How from the crowd we run ;
And how, to jesting still inclin’d,
We sported in the sun.
Alas! he’s gone, and part we must,
And repartee’s no more ;
But, though my friend be sunk in dust,
His muse shall ever soar.
The dart of death shall never fly
To stop her waving wings ;
Like Philomel she mounts on high,
And still, like her, she sings.