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The high cultur'd sense of his masculine mind, By a love of the arts, and by taste was refin'd; Despis’d each vain pomp of the wealthy or great, And forc'd envy to pardon a princely estate. With a talent exhaustless around his gay fire, The dull to instruct, and the grave to inspire; From Antiquity's mine, all her treasure he drew, And each actor in Life's busy circle well knew ;
Too enlighten'd-the vassal of party to stoop, Or submit to her trammels, a cypher and dupe ; Yet a steady supporter, throughout his career, Of all that to Britain is sacred or dear;
Of all she acquird on Runnimede's plain,
Resign’d and undaunted at life's final close,
He receiv'd the great mandate for Nature's repose;
And prov'd, tho' his objects were upright and true, “ What shadows we are, and what shadows pursue ;"
While the mind that creation itself could explore,
No art can revive, or endearment restore.
REVISITING A PATERNAL RESIDENCE.
“ We lov'd, but not enough, the gentle hand
“ By ev'ry gilded folly, we renounced
“ His sheltring side, and wilfully forewent,
“ Can you raise the dead?
Oronooko, Act II.
How cold is the mansion ! how dreary the hall;
Each tree on the lawn, and each shrub on the
Awake the remembrance of some festive scene ;
Revive some endearment, or some broken tie,
Of friends who were summon'd long since to the sky.
Then rise to the view, ye bright scenes of
When each prospect was sunshine, each vision was truth; Thy surface, old Thames, let me cleave with the oar,
Or plunge thro' thy wave, as in summers of yore.
Rise! rise ! ye fair forms, who each heart could subdue,
Rise ! rise! ye lost comrades, so ardent and gay,
Rise! rise! ye great Statesmen, their rivals e'en sung,
On whose precepts, the Senate attentively hung;
Rise! rise ! ye regretted and far distant hours,
Nor forget the fond parent, the source of my birth,
Whose kindness bestow'd all we value on earth;
Who my footsteps thro' childhood and infancy train'd,
When the struggle is finish'd, the bustle is o’er,
Like him, may remorse, ne'er embitter the close,
Nor disturb, with her scorpion-like sting my repose ;
Upon his death-bed he told the writer, that endeavouring to review all his past actions, he had the happiness to say, nothing gave him a moment's uneasiness or regret.
Light be the turf upon thee;
“ Neque semper arcum ; tendit Apollo.”
IlL fated year! what angry tempests rag'd;