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This Child, so lovely and so cherub-like,
(No fairer spirit in the heaven of heavens)
Say, must he know remorse ? must Passion come,
Passion in all or any of its shapes,
To cloud and sully what is now so pure ?
Yes, come it must. For who, alas ! has lived,
Nor in the watches of the night recalled
Words he has wished unsaid and deeds undone?
Yes, come it must. But if, as we may hope,
He learns ere long to discipline his mind,
And onward goes, humbly and cheerfully,
Assisting them that faint, weak though he be,
And in his trying hours trusting in God-
Fair as he is, he shall be fairer still ;
For what was Innocence will then be Virtue.

Oh, if the selfish knew how much they lost,
What would they not endeavour, not endure,
To imitate, as far as in them lay,
Him who his wisdom and his power employs
In making others happy!

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.

WRITTEN IN JULY,

1834.

GREY, thou hast served, and well, the sacred Cause,
That Hampden, Sydney died for. Thou hast stood,
Scorning all thought of Self, from first to last,
Among the foremost in that glorious field;
From first to last; and, ardent as thou art,
Held on with equal step as best became
A lofty mind, loftiest when most assailed ;
Never, though galled by many a barbed shaft,
By many a bitter taunt from friend and foe,
Swerving, or shrinking. Happy in thy Youth,
Thy Youth the dawn of a long summer-day;
But in thy Age still happier; thine to earn
The gratitude of millions yet to be;
Thine to conduct, through ways how difficult,
A mighty people in their march sublime
From Good to Better. Great thy recompense,
When in their eyes thou read'st what thou hast done ;
And may'st thou long enjoy it; may'st thou long

Preserve for them what still they claim as theirs,
That

generous fervour and pure eloquence, Thine from thy birth and Nature's noblest gifts, To guard what They have gained !

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)

* 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.

The moving Pomp along the shadowy aisle,
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;
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!

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* Et rien enfin ne manque dans tous ces honneurs, que celui à qui on les rend. Ibid.

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