By thee, as by the beacon light, Our pilots had kept course aright; As some proud column, though alone, Thy strength had propp'd the tottering throne. Now is the stately column broke, The beacon-light is quenched in smoke, The trumpet's silver sound is still, The warder silent on the hill! Oh, think, how to his latest day, When Death, just hovering, claimed his prey, With Palinure's unaltered mood, Firm at his dangerous post he stood; Each call for needful rest repelled, With dying hand the rudder held, Till, in his fall, with fateful sway, The steerage of the realm gave way! Whose peaceful bells ne'er sent around B But still, upon the hallowed day, Nor yet suppress the generous sigh, Lest it be said o'er Fox's tomb. And feelings keen, and fancy's glow,- 11 Here, where the end of earthly things As if some angel spoke agen, All peace on earth, good-will to men ; When Europe crouched to France's yoke, 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, How high they soared above the crowd! Theirs was no common party race, Jostling by dark intrigue for place ; Like fabled Gods, their mighty war Shook realms and nations in its jar; Beneath each banner proud to stand, Looked up the noblest of the land, Till through the British world were known The names of PITT and Fox alone. Spells of such force no wizard grave E'er framed in dark Thessalian cave, Though his could drain the ocean dry, And force the planets from the sky. These spells are spent, and, spent with these, The wine of life is on the lees. Genius, and taste, and talent gone, For ever tombed beneath the stone, Where,―taming thought to human pride !— "Twill trickle to his rival's bier ; O'er PITT's the mournful requiem sound, The solemn echo seems to cry, "Here let their discord with them die ; 66 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 Not even your Britain's groans can pierce This grateful tributary strain; |