Ye Lime-trees, ranged before this hallowed Urn,
Shoot forth with lively power at Spring’s return;
And be not slow a stately growth to rear
Of pillars, branching off from year to year,
Till they have learned to frame a darksome aisle;
That may recall to mind that awful Pile
Where Reynolds, ‘mid our country’s noblest dead,
In the last sanctity of fame is laid.
There, though by right the excelling Painter sleep
Where Death and Glory a joint sabbath keep,
Yet not the less his Spirit would hold dear
Self-hidden praise, and Friendship’s private tear:
Hence, on my patrimonial grounds, have I
Raised this frail tribute to his memory;
From youth a zealous follower of the Art
That he professed; attached to him in heart;
Admiring, loving, and with grief and pride
Feeling what England lost when Reynolds died.