Pity her dewy wings before him spread,
For noble spirits "war not with the dead:"
His friends in tears, a last sad requiem gave,
As all his errors slumber'd in the grave;[1]
He sunk, an Atlas bending 'neath the weight[2]
Of cares o'erwhelming our conflicting state.
When, lo! a Hercules, in Fox, appear'd,
Who for a time the ruin'd fabric rear'd:
He, too, is fall'n, who Britain's loss supplied,[3]
With him, our fast reviving hopes have died;
Not one great people, only, raise his urn,
All Europe's far-extended regions mourn.
"These feelings wide, let Sense and Truth unclue,
To give the palm where Justice points its due;"[4]
Yet, let not canker'd Calumny assail,[5]
Or round her statesman wind her gloomy veil.
Fox! o'er whose corse a mourning world must weep,
Whose dear remains in honour'd marble sleep;
For whom, at last, e'en hostile nations groan,
- ↑ And all his errors.—[4to]
- ↑ He died, an Atlas betiding 'neath the weight
Of cares oppressing our unhappy state.
But lo! another Hercules appeared.—[4to] - ↑ He too is dead who still our England propp'd
With him our fast reviving hopes have dropp'd.—[4to] - ↑ And give the palm.—[4to]
- ↑ But let not canker'd Calumny assail
And round.—[4to] - ↑ And friends and foes.—[4to]
