On Southey's Tomb

Few tears, nor those too warm, are shed
By poet over poet dead.
Without premeditated lay-
To catch the crowd, I only say.
As over Southey's slab I bend.
The best of mortals was my friend.

Cursing Milton, Hampden, Sidney,
And all others of their kidney,
Satan's sons, who drew the sword
'Gainst the anointed of our Lord,
Whence this day hath been appointed,
Sacred to our Lord's anointed.
We will close it with a prayer
Such as He may deign to hear.
Short prayer after long banning,
" Ever be there worshipt by us
Kings as merciful and pious!
Live, Sweetbriar, and protect the bones
Of him who lies beneath these stones.
Tho' perriwinkles cover o'er
His relics, they can do no more.
Bid idle girls, who come to gather
Thy blossoms, look for others rather,
Showing them, if they will not mind,
Avenger Nemesis is behind.
Who threatens they shall search in vain
That finger with the guilty stain.