Ev'n now the Mufe, the conscious Mufe is here; From every ruin's formidable shade Eternal mufic breathes on fancy's ear, 65 And wakes to more than form th' illuftrious dead. Thy CESARS, SCIPIOS, CATOS rife, In folemn ftate advance! They fix the philofophic eye, IV. But chief that humbler happier train, By them the hero's generous rage Thy glory ftill furvives. Thro' deep favannahs wild and vaft, Beneath the fun's directer beams, 70 75 80 What copious torrents pour their streams! No fame have they, no fond pretence to mourn, 85 No annals fwell their pride, or grace their storied urn. Whilst thou, with Rome's exalted genius join'd, Her fpear yet lifted, and her corslet brac'd, Canft tell the waves, canft tell the paffing wind, Thy wond'rous tale, and chear the lift'ning wafte. Tho' from his caves th' unfeeling North Yet ftill thy laurels bloom : One deathless glory ftill remains, 90 Thy ftream has roll'd thro' Latian plains, 95 ΑΝ ODE ON THE DEATH OF MR. PELHAM. BY DAVID GARRICK, ESQ. * An honeft man's the nobleft work of God! POPE. LET others hail the rifing fun, I bow to that whofe courfe is run, Which fets in endless night; Whofe rays benignant blefs'd this isle, No bounty past provokes my praife, I catch th' alarm from Britain's fears, See as you pass the crowded street, Defpondence clouds each face you meet, All their loft friend deplore: You read in every pensive eye, You hear in ev'ry broken figh, That Pelham is no more. * Born 1716; dyed 1779. 5 10 15 If thus each Briton be alarm'd, Whom but his diftant influence warm'd, What grief their breasts must rend, Who in his private virtues bless'd, By Nature's dearest tyes poffefs'd The Hufband, Father, Friend. 20 What! mute ye bards?-no mournful verse, 25 No chaplets to adorn his hearse, To crown the good and just ? Your flowers in warmer regions bloom, No laurels from the duft. When pow'r departed with his breath, Such infects fwarm at noon. Not for herself my Mufe is griev'd, One minifterial boon. Hath fome peculiar ftrange offence To check the nation's pride! It fell 30 35 Uncheck'd by fhame, unaw'd by dread, Vengeance can fleep no more; The evil angel ftalks at large, The good fubmits, refigns his charge, And quits th' unhallow'd fhore. The fame fad morn* to church and state, (So for our fins 'twas fix'd by fate) A double froke was giv'n; Black as the whirlwinds of the north, St. J-n's fell Genius iffu'd forth, 45 50 By angels watch'd in Eden's bow'rs, 55 Our parents pafs'd their peaceful hours, But on the day which usher'd in Nor guilt nor pain they knew ; The hell-born train of mortal fin, The heav'nly guards withdrew. Look down, much honour'd fhade, below! Stretch out thy healing hand; Resume those feelings, which on earth 60 Proclaim'd thy patriot love and worth, 65 And fav'd a finking land. *The 6th of March, 1754, was remarkable for the publication of the works of a late lord, and the death of Mr. Pelham. |