| TO mute and to material things | |
| New life revolving summer brings; | |
| The genial call dead Nature hears, | |
| And in her glory reappears. | |
| But oh, my Country's wintry state | 5 |
| What second spring shall renovate? | |
| What powerful call shall bid arise | |
| The buried warlike and the wise; | |
| |
| The mind that thought for Britain's weal, | |
| The hand that grasp'd the victor steel? | 10 |
| The vernal sun new life bestows | |
| Even on the meanest flower that blows; | |
| But vainly, vainly may he shine | |
| Where glory weeps o'er NELSON'S shrine; | |
| And vainly pierce the solemn gloom | 15 |
| 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! | 20 |
| To him, as to the burning levin, | |
| Short, bright, resistless course was given. | |
| Where'er his country's foes were found | |
| Was heard the fated thunder's sound, | |
| Till burst the bolt on yonder shore, | 25 |
| 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; | 30 |
| Who, born to guide such high emprise, | |
| 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 | 35 |
| 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, | 40 |
| 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. | |
| |
| Hadst thou but lived, though stripp'd of power, | 45 |
| 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; | 50 |
| 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 voice is still, | 55 |
| The warder silent on the hill! | |
| |
| O 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; | 60 |
| 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 | 65 |
| One polluted 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; | 70 |
| 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; | 75 |
| 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, | 80 |
| 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: | 85 |
| 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 | 90 |
| 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 vaults prolong | |
| The distant notes of holy song, | 95 |
| 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, | 100 |
| 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— | 105 |
| 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! | |
| Heaven, to reward his firmness, gave | 110 |
| 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! | 115 |
| 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, | 120 |
| Look'd 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, | 125 |
| 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, | 130 |
| For ever tomb'd 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; | 135 |
| O'er PITT'S the mournful requiem sound, | |
| And Fox's shall the notes rebound. | |
| The solemn echo seems to cry, | |
| 'Here let their discord with them die. | |
| Speak not for those a separate doom | 140 |
| Whom fate made Brothers in the tomb; | |
| But search the land of living men, | |
| Where wilt thou find their like agen?' | |
