Unheeded steal: but, with his sire compared,
He must be glorious, or he must be scorn'd.
This truth to you, who merit well to bear
A name to Britons dear, the' officious Muse
May safely sing, and sing without reserve.
Vain were the plaint, and ignorant the tear
That should a Talbot mourn. Ourselves, indeed,
Our country robb'd of her delight and strength,
We may lament. Yet let us, grateful, joy
That we such virtues knew, such virtues felt,
And feel them still, teaching our views to rise
Through ever-brightening scenes of future worlds.
Be dumb, ye worst of zealots! ye that, prone
To thoughtless dust, renounce that generous hope,
Whence every joy below its spirit draws,
And every pain its balm: a Talbot's light,
A Talbot's virtues claim another source,
Than the blind maze of undesigning blood;
Nor when that vital fountain plays no more,
Can they be quench'd amid the gelid stream.
Methinks I see his mounting spirit, freed
From tangling earth, regain the realms of day,
Its native country: whence to bless mankind,
Eternal goodness, on this darksome spot
Had ray'd it down a while. Behold! approved
By the tremendous Judge of Heaven and earth,
And to the' Almighty Father's presence join'd,
He takes his rank, in glory, and in bliss,
Amid the human worthies. Glad around
Crowd his compatriot shades, and point him out,
With joyful pride, Britannia's blameless boast.
Ah! who is he, that with a fonder eye
Meets thine enraptured ?—Tis the best of sons! The best of friends!-Too soon is realized
That hope, which once forbad thy tears to flow!
Meanwhile the kindred souls of every land,
(Howe'er divided in the fretful days
Of prejudice and error) mingled now,
In one selected never-jarring state,
Where God himself their only monarch reigns,
Partake the joy; yet, such the sense that still
Remains of earthly woes, for us below,
And for our loss, they drop a pitying tear.
But cease, presumptuous Muse, nor vainly strive
To quit this cloudy sphere, that binds thee down:
"Tis not for mortal hand to trace these scenes.-
Scenes, that our gross ideas groveling cast
Behind, and strike our boldest language dumb.
Forgive, immortal Shade! if aught from earth,
From dust low-warbled, to those groves can rise,
Where flows celestial harmony, forgive
This fond superfluous verse. With deep-felt voice,
On every heart impress'd, thy deeds themselves
Attest thy praise. Thy praise the widow's sighs
And orphan's tears embalm. The good, the bad,
The sons of justice and the sons of strife,
All who or freedom or who interest prize,
A deep-divided nation's parties all,
Conspire to swell thy spotless praise to Heaven.
Glad Heaven receives it, and seraphic lyres
With songs of triumph thy arrival hail.
How vain this tribute then! this lowly lay!
Yet nought is vain which gratitude inspires.
The Muse, besides, her duty thus approves
To virtue, to her country, to mankind,
To ruling Nature, that, in glorious charge,
As to her priestess, gives it her to hymn
Whatever good and excellent she forms.
EPITAPH ON MISS STANLEY.
HERE, Stanley, rest! escaped this mortal strife,
Above the joys, beyond the woes of life.
Fierce pangs no more thy lively beauties stain,
And sternly try thee with a year of pain ;
No more sweet Patience, feigning oft relief,
Lights thy sick eye, to cheat a parent's grief:
With tender art to save her anxious groan,
No more thy bosom presses down its own :
Now well-earn'd peace is thine, and bliss sincere:
Ours be the lenient, not unpleasing tear!
O born to bloom, then sink beneath the storm;
To show us Virtue in her fairest form ;
To show us artless Reason's moral reign,
What boastful Science arrogates in vain ;
The' obedient passions knowing each their part;
Calm light the bead, and harmony the heart!
Yes, we must follow soon, will glad obey; When a few suns have roll'd their cares away, Tired with vain life, will close the willing eye: 'Tis the great birthright of mankind to die. Bless'd be the bark! that wafts us to the shore, Where death-divided friends shall part no more: To join thee there, here with thy dust repose, Is all the hope thy hapless mother knows.
ON THE LATTER PART OF THE SIXTH CHAPTER OF
ST. MATTHEW.
WHEN my breast labours with oppressive care,
And o'er my cheek descends the falling tear;
While all my warring passions are at strife,
O, let me listen to the words of life!
Raptures deep-felt His doctrine did impart,
And thus He raised from earth the drooping heart.
'Think not, when all your scanty stores afford
Is spread at once upon the sparing board;
Think not, when worn the homely robe appears,
While, on the roof, the howling tempest bears;
What further shall this feeble life sustain,
And what shall clothe these shivering limbs again,
Say, does not life its nourishment exceed?
And the fair body its investing weed?
Behold! and look away your low despair-
See the light tenants of the barren air:
To them, nor stores, nor granaries, belong,
Nought, but the woodland, and the pleasing song;
Yet, your kind heavenly Father bends his eye
On the least wing that flits along the sky.
To him they sing, when Spring renews the plain;
To him they cry, in Winter's pinching reign;
Nor is their music, nor their plaint in vain;
He hears the gay, and the distressful call,
And with unsparing bounty fills them all.
'Observe the rising lily's snowy grace,
Observe the various vegetable race;
They neither toil, nor spin, but careless grow, Yet see how warm they blush! how bright they
What regal vestments can with them compare!
What king so shining! or what queen so fair!
If ceaseless thus the fowls of Heaven he feeds,
If o'er the fields such lucid robes he spreads:
Will he not care for you, ye faithless, say?
Is he unwise? or, are ye less than they?'
ETHERIAL race, inhabitants of air,
Who hymn your God amid the secret grove; Ye unseen beings, to my harp repair,
And raise majestic strains, or melt in love. Those tender notes, how kindly they upbraid, With what soft woe they thrill the lover's heart! Sure from the hand of some unhappy maid,
Who died for love, those sweet complainings part. But hark! that strain was of a graver tone,
On the deep strings his hand some hermit throws; Or he, the sacred Bard1, who sat alone
In the drear waste, and wept his people's woes. Such was the song which Zion's children sung, When by Euphrates' stream they made their plaint;
And to such sadly solemn notes are strung
Angelic harps, to scothe a dying saint.
Methinks I hear the full celestial choir, [raise;
Through Heaven's high dome their awful anthem
Now chanting clear, and now they all conspire
To swell the lofty hymn from praise to praise.
Let me, ye wandering spirits of the wind,
Who, as wild fancy prompts you, touch the
string,
Smit with your theme, be in your chorus join'd,
For till you cease, my Muse forgets to sing.
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