But vainly, vainly may he shine, Where Glory weeps o'er NELSON's shrine ; That shrouds, O PITT, thy hallow'd tomb! Deep graved in every British heart, O never let those names depart! Say to your sons,-Lo, here his grave, To him, as to the burning levin, Short, bright, resistless course was given; Was heard the fated thunder's sound, Roll'd, blazed, destroy'd,—and was no more. Nor mourn ye less his perish'd worth, Who bade the conqueror go forth, And launch'd that thunderbolt of war On Egypt, Hafnia,* Trafalgar ; Copenhagen. Who, born to guide such high emprize, For Britain's weal was early wise; And brought the freeman's arm to aid the freeman's laws. Had'st thou but lived, though stripp'd of power, A watchman on the lonely tower, Thy thrilling trump had roused the land, When fraud or danger were at hand; 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 quench'd 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, claim'd his prey, With Palinure's unalter'd mood, Firm at his dangerous post he stood; Each call for needful rest repell'd, With dying hand the rudder held, Till, in his fall, with fateful sway, The steerage of the realm gave way! The bloody tocsin's maddening sound, But still, upon the hallow'd 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, PITT, lies here! Nor yet suppress the generous sigh, Lest it be said o'er Fox's tomb. For talents mourn, untimely lost, And feelings keen, and fancy's glow,- And sacred be the last long rest. Here, where the end of earthly things As if some angel spoke agen, All peace on earth, good-will to men; When Europe crouch'd to France's yoke, And the firm Russian's purpose brave And nail'd her colours to the mast! |