Amid the nameless infects of a court, Unheeded steal: but, with his fire compar'd, He must be glorious, or he must be scorn'd. This truth to you, who merit well to bear A name to Britons dear, th' officious Muse May fafely fing, and fing without reserve.
Vain were the plaint, and ignorant the tear That should a Talbot mourn. Ourselves, indeed, Our country robb'd of her delight and strength, 300
We may lament. Yet let us, grateful, joy, That we fuch virtues knew, fuch virtues felt, And feel them still, teaching our views to rife Thro' ever-bright'ning scenes of future worlds. Be dumb, ye worst of zealots! ye that, prone To thoughtless duft, renounce that gen'rous hope, Whence ev'ry joy below its spirit draws, And ev'ry pain its balm: a Talbot's light, A Talbot's virtues claim another source, Than the blind maze of undesigning blood; Nor when that vital fountain plays no more, Can they be quench'd amid the gelid stream.
Methinks I see his mounting spirit, freed From tangling earth, regain the realms of day, Its native country, whence, to bless mankind, Eternal Goodness, on this darksome spot, Had ray'd it down a while. Behold! approv'd By the tremendous Judge of heav'n and earth,.. And to th' Almighty Father's prefence join'd, He takes his rank, in glory, and in bliss, Amid the human worthies. Glad around
Croud his compatriot shades, and point him out, With joyful pride, Britannia's blameless boaft. Ah! who is he, that with a fonder eye Meets thine enraptur'd? - 'Tis the best of fons ! The best of friends! - Too foon is realiz'd That hope, which once forbad thy tears to flow! Mean-while the kindred fouls of ev'ry land, (Howe'er divided in the fretful days Of prejudice and error), mingled now, In one felected never-jarring state,
Where God himself their only monarch reigns, Partake the joy; yet, fuch the sense that still Remains of earthly woes, for us below, And for our loss, they drop a pitying tear. But ceafe, prefumptuous Muse, nor vainly strive To quit this cloudy sphere that binds thee down : 'Tis not for mortal hand to trace these scenes, Scenes, that our grofs ideas grov'ling caft Behind, and strike our boldest language dumb. Forgive, immortal shade! if aught from earth, From dust low-warbled, to those groves can rise, Where flows celestial harmony, forgive This fond fuperfluous verse. With deep-felt voice, On ev'ry heart impress'd, thy deeds themselves Attest thy praise. Thy praise the widow's sighs, And orphan's tears embalm. The good, the bad, The fons of justice and the fons of ftrife, All who or freedom or who int'rest prize, A deep-divided nation's parties all, Confpire to fwell thy spotless praise to heav'n. Glad heay'n receives it, and seraphic lyres
With fongs of triumph thy arrival hail. How vain this tribute then! this lowly lay!
Yet nought is vain which gratitude inspires. The Muse, befides, her duty thus approves.
To virtue, to her country, to mankind, To ruling Nature, that, in glorious charge,
As to her priestess, gives it her, to hymn Whatever good and excellent she forms.
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