A Legacy.

Ah, Postumus, we all must go:     This keen North-Easter nips my shoulder;     My strength begins to fail; I know     You find me older;     I've made my Will. Dear, faithful friend--     My Muse's friend and not my purse's!     Who still would hear and still commend     My tedious verses,     How will you live--of these deprived?     I've learned your candid soul. The venal,--     The sordid friend had scarce survived     A test so penal;     But you--Nay, nay, 'tis so. The rest     Are not as you: you hide your merit;     You, more than all, deserve the best     True friends inherit;--     Not gold,--that hearts like yours despise;     Not "spacious dirt" (your own expression),     No; but the rarer, dearer prize--     The Life's Confession!     You catch my thought? What! Can't you guess?     You, you alone, admired my Cantos;--     I've left you, P., my whole MS.,     In three portmanteaus!