[THE First Part of this Poem was published in 1822. A few years la Second Part was added. It was revised throughout and further addition made from time to time; and in its Author's opinion the first complete was that of 1834.-EDITOR.]
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!1
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 ;
And they, by virtue and by blood allied,
Whom most He loved, and in whose arms He died.
1 "Et rien enfin ne manque dans tous ces honneurs, que celui à qui on les rer -BOSSUET, Oraison funèbre de Louis de Bourbon.
He died. ui à qui on les rend."
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.
than these,
by thee,
mlay,
-pine louds,
1 "How strange," said he to me, "are the impressions that sometimes battle! After the battle of Assaye I slept in a farm-house, and so g been the slaughter that whenever I awoke, which I did continually thro night, it struck me that I had lost all my friends, nor could I bring myself otherwise till morning came, and one by one I saw those that were living.'
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