But vainly, vainly may he shine, Where Glory weeps o'er NELSON's shrine; And vainly pierce the solemn gloom, That shrouds, O PITT, thy hallow'd tomb! Deep graved in every British heart, O never let those names depart ! Say to your sons,-Lo, here his grave, Who victor died on Gadite wave; To him, as to the burning levin, Short, bright, resistless course was given ; Till burst the bolt on yonder shore, Roll'd, blazed, destroy'd,—and was no more. Nor mourn ye less his perish'd worth, Who bade the conqueror go forth, And launch'd that thunderbolt of war On Egypt, Hafnia,* Trafalgar ; * Copenhagen. Who, born to guide such high emprize, For Britain's weal was early wise; And brought the freeman's arm, to aid the free man'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; 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, 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; 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; Here, where the fretted aisles prolong 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 Stood for his country's glory fast, And nail'd her colours to the mast! |