Monody on the Death of Tom Cribb.
The struggle 's over, and he sleeps at last;
His pains, his pleasures, and his sorrow's past.
Like some huge oak, uprooted by the storm,
Lies the old Champion's cold and senseless form.
Insatiate Death! throughout thy conquests grim
Thou ne'er didst beat a braver man than him.
Ask those who knew, him if a nobler heart
Was ever "cast" to play a manly part
In this life's drama? Mark his vigorous prime,
Ere fell Disease, or more relentless Time
Had laid their heavy hands upon his head,
And his activity and strength were fled;
How marked by deeds loud heralded by Fame,
Which gave Tom Cribb the envied Champion's name!
He "fought and conquered;" but how oft and well,
Let the true page of "Fistiana" tell;
Only observing, that his laurels gained,
Cowardice ne'er tarnished, nor dishonour stained.
His life was chequered, and the latter part
Bore no comparison to its brighter start!
And but for filial kindness, and a few
Of kindred spirits 'mong the staunch and true,
The fine old man (an undeserved doom)
Had breathed his last 'midst penury's sad gloom.
A shield was formed of good and feeling hearts,
