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In Memoriam A.H.H.
         
            LXV.
             
      Sweet soul, do with me as thou wilt;
          I lull a fancy trouble-tost
          With ‘Love’s too precious to be lost,
      A little grain shall not be spilt.’

      And in that solace can I sing,
          Till out of painful phases wrought
          There flutters up a happy thought,
      Self-balanced on a lightsome wing:

      Since we deserved the name of friends,
          And thine effect so lives in me,
          A part of mine may live in thee
      And move thee on to noble ends.
       

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