And on their brothers hurl the ruin down?
They too must die, unpity'd, and the wreath
Of vaunting glory wither o'er their tomb.
The news that told an emperor was dead,
Whose frown could ruin, and whose smile could bless,
Affected people, and congeal'd their hearts,
To think ambition had so small a bound!
But the sad tale that told a Howard died,
Was half rever'd for speaking on such themes,
And half accus'd for telling so much woe!
Nations were silent at the dol❜rous tale,
And cloud-rob❜d Horror, to each murky cell,
In deeper accents, swell'd the piteous dirge,
And mourn'd the patriot-Pale-cheek'd Pity sigh'd,
Confusion listen'd, with her horrent hair ;
And Madness, starting at the fatal sound,
Her senses wilder'd by excess of grief,
Clanks her huge chains-Now she is calm awhile;
Silent sad sorrow trickles from her eye;
But now again, by madding fancy work'd,
She raves and shudders-then she weeps again!
Ah, see yon scene! congenial to the heart
Of sternest sorrow! There the father lies;
His hoar head tells an age of varying woes!
The clotted tear that furrows down his cheek,
Ah! fretted often by the hand of Care!
Was shed not for himself. See there his wife,
Bereft of every comfort, lays her down
By his dear side; and there his daughter fair,
In loveliest sorrow, on her father's breast
Her meek hand lays-in firmer grief, the son
Unshrinking stands, a youth of modest worth;
But ah! how seldom bashful Virtue thrives!
They wait their helper! but the fiend Despair
In sullen anguish whispers, He is dead!
While every echo vibrates with the sound.
Wail on ye mourners! roll the leaden eye
Of gorgon Disappointment, for no more
He comes, to cheer your hearts with anxious care,
Dispensing Bounty's ray through the thick night
Of hopeless Mis'ry drear! No more he comes
To wipe the salt tear from thy closing eye,
That, quite debarr'd of ev'ry earthly joy,
Ev'n the poor aspect of the winter sun,
Pores inward on the soul, and ev'ry morn
Opens to see a future night of pain.
O Britain! thou hast suffer'd by his fall,
And ev'ry son bewails him! now be just
To all his virtues, that enrich thy fame,
And make thy praise superior to thy state!
O let each British breast, the noblest shrine,
Contain his mem'ry, imitate his ways,
And wide expand the soul at Virtue's call!
O! let sweet Pity, the celestial maid,
That fir'd each nobler symptom of his heart,
Each worthier action, now possess each son
Of gen'rous freedom, and each friend of woe!
Such honours best will sanctify his name.
Nor storied bust, nor laureate wreath, can vie
With imitative virtues of the soul:
So (if as great a man can rise again!)
In future times, perhaps, some other friend
Of virtue may extol thy rising power,
Lead thy sons forward to the splendid fane
Of seraph Honour, plant thy laurels there,
And drop a tear on Pity's cypress'd tomb!
From thence proceed to ev'ry house of woe,
Relieve the wretched with impartial hand,
Bring their pure blessings to his native land,
While weeping millions ponder on his name,
And hail him-rival of their Howard's fame!
BRIGHT on the page of hist'ry beams each star,
Rever'd in peace, or terrible in war;
The statesman hire to latest ages lives,
And the sweet poet with his Muse survives;
Still thunders one to the admiring crowd,
While flows his speech in the dumb volume loud;
Still silent senates pause on every stroke,
And letters speak what once the hero spoke :
The other's verse each manly bosom charms,
Represses, vigorates, enchants, and charms;
The measured modes majestically glow,
And pity weeps o'er scenes of stored woe.
How sweet, to share the fight, unhurt, unharm'd,
Start to the field with force ideal arm'd ;
Mark hot-brain'd Charles the regal banner wave,
Or unknown hand implant his lowly grave?
A Fred'rick, view, in martial strictness firm,
Turn the quick rank, or place the dauntless turm ;
A William, snatch deep danger's highest wreath,
And brave the iron front of fiercest death;
A Raleigh write, a godlike Newton rise,
Potent, to pierce the myst'ry of the skies!
An Otway die, ev'n destitute of bread,
And scornful vice triumph o'er Dryden dead;
A meek usurper quit the royal stage,
A Cromwell conquer, and a Cromwell rage;
A Mary's hand unjuster sway resign,
And great Eliza distant realms combine;
Smile at the struggles of this puny globe,
And turn from greatness and its ermine robe :
O'er sorrows true, the past shed a fresh tear,
And feel for turbulence you cannot fear.
Hist'ry then, fond memorial of our life,
Receptacle of quiet, mirth, or strife;
World in epitome! contracted plan,
The work of God transferring to a man!
E'en we, when all our troublous storms are o'er,
Shall view the light again, and live once more;
Knowles's and Hollinshead's new tales devise,
And Humes, and Robertsons, and Henrys rise.
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