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Ev'n now the Muse, the conscious Muse is here;

From every ruin's formidable shade
Eternal music breathes on fancy's ear, 65
And wakes to more than form th' illustrious dead.

Thy CÆSARS, Scipios, Caros rise,
The great, the virtuous, and the wife,

In solemn state advance !
They fix the philosophic eye,

70 Or trail the robe, or lift on high

The lightning of the lance.

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But chief that humbler happier train,

Who knew those virtues to reward
Beyond the reach of chance or pain 75

Secure, th’ historian and the bard.
By them the hero's generous rage

Still warm in youth immortal lives;
And in their adamantine page
Thy glory still survives.

Thro' deep savannahs wild and vast,
Unheard, unknown thro’ ages past,
Beneath the sun's directer beams,

What copious torrents pour their streams !
No fame have they, no fond pretence to mourn, 85
No annals swell their pride, or grace their storied urn.
Whilst thou, with Rome's exalted genius join'd,

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 :
One deathless glory still remains,
Thy stream has rolld thro’ Latian plains, 95

Has wash'd the walls of Rome.

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An boneft man's the nobleft work of God! POPE.

Let others hail the rising fun,
I bow to that whose course is run,

Which fets in endless night;
Whose rays berignant bless’d this isle,
Made peaceful Nature round us smile,

With calm, but chearful light.


No bounty past provokes my praise,
No future prospects prompt my lays,

From real grief they flow ;
I catch th' alarm from Britain's fears,
My sorrows fall with Britain's tears,

And join a nation's woe.


See as you pass the crowded street,
Despondence clouds each face you meet,

All their lost friend deplore :
You read in every pensive eye,
You hear in ev'ry broken figh,

15 20

That Pelham is no more.

* Born 1716; dyed 1779.

If thus each Briton be alarm’d,
Whom but his diftant influence warm'd,

What grief their breasts must rend,
Who in his private virtues bless'd,
By Nature's dearest tyes possess’d

The Husband, Father, Friend.

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What! mute ye bards ? - no mournful verse, 25
No chaplets to adorn his hearse,

To crown the good and just ?
Your flowers in warmer regions bloom,
You seek no pensions from the tomb,

No laurels from the dust.


When pow'r departed with his breath,
The fons of Flatt'ry fled from death :

Such insects swarm at noon.
Not for herself my Muse is griev'd,
She never ask'd, nor e'er receiv'd,

One ministerial boon.


Hath some peculiar strange offence
Against us arm'd Omnipotence,

To check the nation's pride!
Behold th' appointed punithment !
At length the vengeful bolt is fent,

It fell when Pelham dy'd !


Uncheck’d by shame, unaw'd by dread,
When Vice triumphant rears her head,

Vengeance can sleep no more ;
The evil angel stalks at large,
The good fubmits, resigns his charge,

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,
Our parents pafs’d their peaceful hours,

Nor guilt nor pain they knew;
But on the day which ulher'd in
The hell-born train of mortal fin,

The heav'nly guards withdre.v.


Look down, much honour'd shade, below!
Still let thy pity aid our woe;

Stretch out thy healing hand;
Resume those feelings, which on earth
Proclaim'd thy patriot love and worth,

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.


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