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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! 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!

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

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.

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 yearsFoes 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.

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 unborn;
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 !

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