« EelmineJätka »
Ev'n now the Muse, the conscious Muse is here;
From every ruin's formidable shade
Thy CÆSARS, Scipios, Caros rise,
In solemn state advance !
70 Or trail the robe, or lift on high
The lightning of the lance.
But chief that humbler happier train,
Who knew those virtues to reward
Secure, th’ historian and the bard.
Still warm in youth immortal lives;
What copious torrents pour their streams !
Her spear yet lifted, and her corslet brac'd,
Canit tell the waves, canst tell the passing wind, Thy wond'rous tale, and chear the lift'ning waste.
go Tho' from his caves th' unfeeling North Pour'd all his legion'd tempefts forth,
Yet still thy laurels bloom :
Has wash'd the walls of Rome.
An boneft man's the nobleft work of God! POPE.
Let others hail the rising fun,
Which fets in endless night;
With calm, but chearful light.
No bounty past provokes my praise,
From real grief they flow ;
And join a nation's woe.
See as you pass the crowded street,
All their lost friend deplore :
That Pelham is no more.
* Born 1716; dyed 1779.
If thus each Briton be alarm’d,
What grief their breasts must rend,
The Husband, Father, Friend.
What! mute ye bards ? - no mournful verse, 25
To crown the good and just ?
No laurels from the dust.
When pow'r departed with his breath,
Such insects swarm at noon.
One ministerial boon.
Hath some peculiar strange offence
To check the nation's pride!
It fell when Pelham dy'd !
Uncheck’d by shame, unaw'd by dread,
Vengeance can sleep no more ;
And quits th' unhallow'd shore.
The same sad morn * to church and state, (So for our fins 'twas fix'd by fate)
A double stroke was giv’n ; Black as the whirlwinds of the north, St. J-n's fell Genius iffu'd forth,
And Pelham fled to heav'n!
By angels watch'd in Eden's bow'rs,
Nor guilt nor pain they knew;
The heav'nly guards withdre.v.
Look down, much honour'd shade, below!
Stretch out thy healing hand;
And fav'd a finking land. * The 6th of March, 1754, was remarkable for the pub. lication of the works of a late lord, and the death of afr. Pelham.