Poem by George Crabbe

On the Death of William Springall Levett

[1774.]

What though no trophies peer above his dust,
Nor sculptured conquests deck his sober bust;
What though no earthly thunders sound his name,
Death gives him conquest, and our sorrows fame:
One sigh reflection heaves, but shuns excess--
More should we mourn him, did we love him less.

1. To a Lady, on Leaving Her at Sidmouth
2. Lines Written at Warwick
3. Concluding Lines of Prize Poem on Hope
4. Cupid
5. To Emma

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