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His worth, who, in his mightiest hour,
Oh think, how to his latest day,
The bloody tocsin's maddening sound,
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 employed, 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 glowThey 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 suppressed, 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 again, * All peace on earth, goodwill to men ;' If ever from an English heart, Oh, here let prejudice depart, And, partial feeling cast aside, Record that Fox a Briton died !
When Europe crouched to France's yoke,
With more than mortal powers endowed, How high they soared 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, Looked up the noblest of the land, 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. Genius, and taste, and talent gone, For ever tombed beneath the stone, Where--taming thought to human pride! The mighty chiefs sleep side by side. Drop upon Fox's grave the tear, 'Twill trickle to his rival's bier ;
O'er Pitt's the mournful requiem sound,
Here let their discord with them die.
Rest, ardent spirits ! till the cries Of dying Nature bid you rise ; Not even your Britain's groans can pierce The leaden silence of your hearse; Then, oh, how impotent and vain This grateful tributary strain! Though not unmarked, from northern clime, Ye heard the Border minstrel's rhyme : His Gothic harp has o'er you rung; The bard you deigned to praise, your deathless
names has sung.
Stay yet, illusion, stay a while,
Like frostwork in the morning ray
Prompt on unequal tasks to run, Thus Nature disciplines her son : Meeter, she says, for me to stray, And waste the solitary day, In plucking from yon fen the reed, And watch it floating down the Tweed; Or idly list the shrilling lay, With which the milkmaid cheers her way, Marking its cadence rise and fail, As from the field, beneath her pail, She trips it down the uneven dale : Meeter for me, by yonder cairn, The ancient shepherd's tale to learn: Though oft he stop in rustic fear, Lest his old legends tire the ear Of one who, in his simple mind, May boast of book-learned taste refined.
But thou, my friend, canst fitly tell,