Here, where the end of earthly things Of those who fought, and spoke, and sung; As if some angel spoke agen, All peace on earth, good-will to men; If ever from an English heart, O here let prejudice depart, And, partial feeling cast aside, Record, that Fox a Briton died! When Europe crouched to France's yoke, And Austria bent, and Prussia broke, And the firm Russian's purpose brave Was bartered by a timorous slave, Even then dishonour's peace he spurned, The sullied olive-branch returned, Stood for his country's glory fast, And nailed her colours to the mast. Heaven, to reward his firmness, gave A portion in this honoured grave; And ne'er held marble in its trust Of two such wonderous men the dust. With more than mortal powers endowed, Theirs was no common party race, Till through the British world were known. Spells of such force no wizard grave And force the planets from the sky. Genius, and taste, and talent gone, For ever tombed beneath the stone, Where, taming thought to human pride!— The mighty chiefs sleep side by side. Drop upon Fox's grave the tear, "Twill trickle to his rival's bier; O'er PITT's the mournful requiem sound, And Fox's shall the notes rebound. The solemn echo seems to cry,— "Here let their discord with them die; "Speak not for those a separate doom, "Whom Fate made brothers in the tomb, "But search the land of living men, "Where wilt thou find their like agen?" Rest, ardent Spirits! till the cries Of dying Nature bid you rise; Not even your Britain's groans can pierce The leaden silence of your hearse : This grateful tributary strain! Though not unmarked from northern clime, Ye heard the Border Minstrel's rhyme : His Gothic harp has o'er you rung; The bard you deigned to praise, your deathless names has sung. Stay yet, illusion, stay a while, My wildered fancy still beguile! From this high theme how can I part, Ere half unloaded is my heart! For all the tears e'er sorrow drew, And all the raptures fancy knew, And all the keener rush of blood, That throbs through bard in bard-like mood, Were here a tribute mean and low, Though all their mingled streams could flow Woe, wonder, and sensation high, In one spring-tide of ecstasy, It will not be it may not last The vision of enchantment's past: Like frost-work in the morning ray, Each Gothic arch, memorial stone, Mixing their shrill cries with the tone Prompt on unequal tasks to run, Thus Nature disciplines her son: Meeter, she says, for me to stray, And waste the solitary day, In plucking from yon fen the reed, And watch it floating down the Tweed; Or idly list the shrilling lay With which the milk-maid cheers her way, |