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HENCE to the Altar and with Her thou lov'st,
With Her who longs to strew thy way with flowers ;
Nor lose the blessed privilege to give
Birth to a Race immortal as Yourselves.
Which trained by you, shall make a Heaven on Earth,
And tread the path that leads from Earth to Heaven.

FROM AN ITALIAN SONNET.

I said to Time, “ This venerable pile,
Its floor the earth, its roof the firmament,
Whose was it once ?” He answered not, but fled
Fast as before. I turned to Fame, and asked.
“Names such as his, to thee they must be known.
Speak!” But she answered only with a sigh,
And musing mournfully, looked on the ground.
Then to Oblivion I addressed myself,
A dismal phantom, sitting at the gate;
And, with a voice as from the grave, he cried,
“ Whose it was once I care not; now 'tis mine.”

WRITTEN IN

WESTMINSTER ABBEY.*

OCTOBER 10, 1806.

WHOE’Er thou art, approach, and, with a sigh,
Mark where the small remains of Greatness lie.t
There sleeps the dust of FOX for ever gone;
How near the Place where late his glory shone !
And, tho' no more ascends the voice of Prayer,
Tho' the last footsteps cease to linger there,
Still, like an awful Dream that comes again,
Alas, at best, as transient and as vain,
Still do I see (while thro' the vaults of night
The funeral-song once more proclaims the rite)
The moving Pomp along the shadowy Isle,
That, like a Darkness, filled the solemn Pile;
The illustrious line, that in long order led,
Of those, that loved Him living, mourned Him dead ;
Of those the Few, that for their Country stood
Round Him who dared be singularly good;

* After the Funeral of the Right Hon. CHARLES JAMES Fox.

† Venez voir le peu qui nous reste de tant de grandeur, &c.-BOSSUET. Oraison funèbre de Louis de Bourbon.

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All, of all ranks, that claimed him for their own;
And nothing wanting—but Himself alone !*

Oh say, of Him now rests there but a name;
Wont, as He was, to breathe ethereal flame ?
Friend of the Absent, Guardian of the Dead !
Who but would here their sacred sorrows shed ?
(Such as He shed on NELSON's closing grave ;
How soon to claim the sympathy He gave !)
In Him, resentful of another's wrong,
The dumb were eloquent, the feeble strong.
Truth from his lips a charm celestial drew-
Ah, who so mighty and so gentle too ?

What tho' with War the madding Nations rung,
Peace,' when He spoke, was ever on his tongue !
Amid the frowns of Power, the tricks of State,
Fearless, resolved, and negligently great!
In vain malignant vapours gathered round;
He walked, erect, on consecrated ground.
The clouds, that rise to quench the Orb of day,
Reflect its splendour, and dissolve away!

When in retreat He laid his thunder by, For lettered ease and calm Philosophy, Blest were his hours within the silent

grove, Where still his god-like Spirit deigns to rove; Blest by the orphan's smile, the widow's prayer, For many a deed, long done in secret there. There shone his lamp on Homer's hallowed page.. There, listening, sate the hero and the sage;

* Et rien enfin ne manque dans tous ces honneurs, que celui à qui on les rend.-BOSSUET. Orrison funèbre de Louis de Bourbon.

And they, by virtue and by blood allied,
Whom most He loved, and in whose arms He died.

Friend of all Human-kind ! not here alone
(The voice, that speaks, was not to Thee unknown)
Wilt Thou be missed.-O'er every land and sea
Long, long shall England be revered in Thee!
And, when the Storm is hushed-in distant years—
Foes on Thy grave shall meet, and mingle tears !

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WRITTEN AT DROPMORE,

JULY, 1831.

GRENVILLE, to thee my gratitude is due
For many an hour of studious musing here,
For many a day-dream, such as hovered round
Hafiz or Sadi; thro' the golden East,
Search where we would, no fairer bowers than these,
Thine own creation; where, called forth by thee,
“ Flowers worthy of Paradise, with rich inlay,
Broider the ground,” and every mountain-pine
Elsewhere unseen (his birth-place in the clouds,
His kindred sweeping with majestic march
From cliff to cliff along the snowy ridge
Of Caucasus, or nearer yet the Moon)
Breathes heavenly music.—Yet much more I owe
For what so few, alas, can hope to share,
Thy converse; when, among thy books reclined,
Or in thy garden-chair that wheels its course
Slowly and silently thro' sun and shade,
Thou speak’st, as ever thou art wont to do,
In the calm temper of philosophy;
-Still to delight, instruct, whate'er the theme.

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