Ye Lime-trees, ranged before this hallowed Urn...

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 recal 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.