But still upon the hallowd day
Convoke the swains to praise and pray;
While faith and
civil peace are dear,
Grace this cold marble with a tear:
He who preserved them, P, lies here!
Nor yet suppress the generous sigh,
Because his rival slumbers nigh;
Nor be thy Requiescat
Lest it be said oer Foxs tomb.
For talents mourn, untimely lost,
When best employd, and wanted
Mourn genius high, and lore profound,
And wit that loved to play, not wound;
And all the reasoning
To penetrate, resolve, combine;
And feelings keen, and fancys glow
They sleep with him
who sleeps below:
And, if thou mournst they could not save
From error him who owns this grave,
harsher thought suppressd,
And sacred be the last long rest.
Here, where the end of earthly things
heroes, patriots, bards, and kings;
Where stiff the hand, and still the tongue,
Of those who fought, and
spoke, and sung:
Here, where the fretted vaults prolong
The distant notes of holy song,
As if some angel
All peace on earth, good-will to men;
If ever from an English heart,
O,here let prejudice depart,
partial feeling cast aside,
Record that Fox a Briton died!
When Europe crouchd to Frances yoke,
Austria bent, and Prussia broke,
And the firm Russians purpose brave
Was barterd by a timorous slave
then dishonours peace he spurnd,
The sullied olive-branch returnd,
Stood for his countrys glory
And naild her colours to the mast!
Heaven, to reward his firmness, gave
A portion in this honourd
And neer held marble in its trust
Of two such wondrous men the dust.
With more than mortal powers endowd,
How high they soard above the crowd!
Theirs was no
common party race,
Jostling by dark intrigue for place;
Like fabled gods, their mighty war
and nations in its jar;
Beneath each banner proud to stand,
Lookd up the noblest of the land,
the British world were known
The names of P and Fox alone.
Spells of such force no wizard grave
framed in dark Thessalian cave,
Though his could drain the ocean dry,
And force the planets from the
These spells are spent, and, spent with these
The wine of life is on the lees.
Genius, and taste, and
For ever tombd beneath the stone,
Wheretaming thought to human pride!
chiefs sleep side by side.
Drop upon Foxs grave the tear,
Twill trickle to his rivals bier;
Oer Ps the mournful
And Foxs 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;
the land of living men,
Where wilt thou find their like agen?
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