« PreviousContinue »
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!
WHOE'ER thou art, approach, and, with a sigh,
Mark where the small remains of Greatness lie.†
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!
*Et rien enfin ne manque dans tous ces honneurs, que celui à qui on les rend.-Ibid.
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 godlike 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;
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!
CHI SE TU, CHE VIENI-?
DA ME STESSO NON VEGNO.