At feeling's shrine his tributary stores,
Vainly the imitative arts aspire,
To give thy varying features all their fire;
Yet, though in vain the sculptor seek to trace,
With vent'rous hand thy soul-illumin'd face,
Thy fame a nobler monument shall prove,
Fix'd on the firmest base—a nation's love:
To distant ages shall thy name descend,
And grateful Britons hail Britannia's friend.
ON A BUST OF FOX.
In this cold Bust, a faint attempt we see,
A vain attempt, great Fox! to picture thee.
For say, can bronze, or marble e'er impart
That magic charm, warm breathing from the heart?
That fire, which darting from th' expressive eye,
Wings with redoubled force the keen reply?
Or, when thy eloquence, with milder flow,
In Freedom's cause, bids wond'ring senates glow?
Or, when obeying friendship's sacred call,
Thou mourn'st illustrious Russell's early fall?
In those blest moments, when bright genius pours A vain attempt, great Fox! to picture thee.
For say, can bronze, or marble e'er impart
That magic charm, warm breathing from the heart?
That fire, which darting from th' expressive eye,
Wings with redoubled force the keen reply?
Or, when thy eloquence, with milder flow,
In Freedom's cause, bids wond'ring senates glow?
Or, when obeying friendship's sacred call,
Thou mourn'st illustrious Russell's early fall?
At feeling's shrine his tributary stores,
Vainly the imitative arts aspire,
To give thy varying features all their fire;
Yet, though in vain the sculptor seek to trace,
With vent'rous hand thy soul-illumin'd face,
Thy fame a nobler monument shall prove,
Fix'd on the firmest base—a nation's love:
To distant ages shall thy name descend,
And grateful Britons hail Britannia's friend.