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