The Death of Heraclitus

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, tho' 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.