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Lettered inside image: "55 | Pluck'd from the wing of human vanity, | Which makes us stoop from our aerial heights, | And, damp'd with omen of our own decease, | On drooping pinions of ambition lower'd, | Just skim earth's surface, ere we break it up, | O'er putrid earth to scratch a little dust, | And save the world a nuisance: smitten friends | Are angels sent on errands full of love: | For us they languish, and for us they die: | And shall they languish, shall they die in vain? | *Ungrateful, shall we grieve their hovering shades | Which wait the revolution in our hearts? | Shall we disdain their silent soft address, | Their posthumous advice, and pious prayer? | Senseless as herds that graze their hallow'd graves, | Tread under foot their agonies and groans, | Frustrate their anguish, and destroy their deaths? | LORENZO! no; the thought of death indulge; | Give it its wholesome empire--let it reign, | That kind chastiser of thy soul in joy; | Its reign will spread thy glorious conquests far, | And still the tumults of thy ruffled breast: | Auspicious aera! golden days, begin! | The thought of death shall, like a god, inspire. | And why not think on death? is life the theme | Of every thought? and wish of every hour? | And song of every joy? Surprising truth! | The beaten spaniel's fondness not so strange. | To wave the numerous ills that seize on life | As their own property, their lawful prey;"; lower right: "inv. & s. | WB"