Who, born to guide such high emprize,

For Britain's weal was early wise;
Alas! to whom the Almighty gave,
For Britain's sins, an early grave;
His worth, who, in his mightiest hour,
A bauble held the pride of power,
Spurn'd at the sordid lust of pelf,
And served his Albion for herself;
Who, when the frantic crowd amain
Strain'd at subjection's bursting rein,
O'er their wild mood full conquest gain'd,
The pride, he would not crush, restrain'd,
Show'd their fierce zeal a worthier cause,

And brought the freeman's arm, to aid the freeman's laws.

Had'st thou but lived, though stripp'd of power,

A watchman on the lonely tower,

Thy thrilling trump had roused the land,

When fraud or danger were at hand;

7

By thee, as by the beacon-light,

Our pilots had kept course aright;

As some proud column, though alone,

Thy strength had propp'd the tottering throne:

Now is the stately column broke,

The beacon-light is quench'd in smoke,

The trumpet's silver sound is still,

The warder silent on the hill!

Oh, think, how to his latest day, When death, just hovering, claim'd his prey,

With Palinure's unalter'd mood,

Firm at his dangerous post he stood;

Each call for needful rest repell'd,

With dying hand the rudder held,

Till, in his fall, with fateful sway,

The steerage of the realm gave way!

Then, while on Britain's thousand plains,

One unpolluted church remains,

Whose peaceful bells ne'er sent around

The bloody tocsin's maddening sound,

But still, upon the hallow'd day,
Convoke the swains to praise and pray;

While faith and civil peace are dear,

Grace this cold marble with a tear,

He, who preserved them, PITT, lies here!

Nor yet suppress the generous sigh, Because his Rival slumbers nigh;

Nor be thy requiescat dumb,

Lest it be said o'er Fox's tomb.

For talents mourn, untimely lost,

When best employ'd, and wanted most;
Mourn genius high, and lore profound,
And wit that loved to play, not wound;
And all the reasoning powers divine,
To penetrate, resolve, combine;

And feelings keen, and fancy's glow,—

They sleep with him who sleeps below:

And, if thou mourn'st they could not save
From error him who owns this grave,
Be every harsher thought suppress'd,

And sacred be the last long rest.

Here, where the end of earthly things
Lays heroes, patriots, bards, and kings;
Where stiff the hand, and still the tongue,
Of those who fought, and spoke, and sung ;

Here, where the fretted aisles prolong
The distant notes of holy song,

As if some angel spoke agen,

"All peace on earth, good-will to men;"

If ever from an English heart,

O, here let prejudice depart,

And, partial feeling cast aside,

Record, that Fox a Briton died!

When Europe crouch'd to France's yoke,

And Austria bent, and Prussia broke,

And the firm Russian's purpose brave
Was barter'd by a timorous slave,
Even then dishonour's peace he spurn'd,

The sullied olive-branch return'd,
Stood for his country's glory fast,

And nail'd her colours to the mast!

B

Heaven, to reward his firmness, gave
A portion in this honour'd grave.

And ne'er held marble in its trust

Of two such wondrous men the dust.

With more than mortal powers endow'd,
How high they soar'd above the crowd!
Theirs was no common party race,
Jostling by dark intrigue for place;

Like fabled Gods, their mighty war
Shook realms and nations in its jar;
Beneath each banner proud to stand,
the noblest of the land,

Look'd up

Till through the British world were known

The names of PITT and Fox alone.

Spells of such force no wizard grave
E'er framed in dark Thessalian cave,
Though his could drain the ocean dry,
And force the planets from the sky.

These spells are spent, and, spent with these,
The wine of life is on the lees.