A Fragment
When, to their airy hall, my Fathers' voiceShall call my spirit, joyful in their choice;When, pois'd upon the gale, my form shall ride,Or, dark in mist, descend the mountain's side;Oh! may my shade behold no sculptur'd urns,To mark the spot where earth to earth returns!No lengthen'd scroll, no praise-encumber'd stone;My epitaph shall be my name alone:If that with honour fail to crown my clay,Oh! may no other fame my deeds repay!That, only that, shall single out the spot;By that remember'd, or with that forgot.
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