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hast a fair domain, Most proud and princely halls, And richly thro' the crystal pane, Thro' bowering branches fresh with rain, The golden sunbeam falls, Thick vine-leaves o'er thy grotto meet In soft and fragrant gloom, But who shall fill that favorite seat When thou art in thy tomb?

The wealth of every age Thou hast center'd here, The ancient tome, the classic page, The wit, the poet, and the sage, All at thy nod appear; But studious head and anxious breast To palsied Death must yield; Whose eye shall on those volumes rest When thine in dust is seal'd?

Thou lov'st the burnish'd gold, The silver from the mine, The diamond glittering bright and cold, And hoards, perchance, of gems untold, Do in thy coffers shine; But when affection's eye shall weep Its few, brief tears for thee, When thou in thy dark grave dost sleep Whose shall these treasures be?