He died an Atlas, bending 'neath the weight,

Of cares oppressing our unhappy state;

[pg 31]

But lo! another Hercules appear'd,

Who for a time, the ruined fabric rear'd;

He too is dead! who still our England propp'd,

With him our fast reviving hopes have dropp'd;

Not one great people only raise his urn,

All Europe's far extended regions mourn.

"These feelings wide, let Sense and Truth unclue,

"And give the palm where Justice points it due;"

But let not canker'd calumny assail,

And round our statesman wind her gloomy veil.

Fox! o'er whose corse a mourning world must weep,

Whose dear remains in honoured marble sleep;

For whom at last, even hostile nations groan,

And friends and foes alike his talents own;

Fox! shall in Britain's future annals shine,

Nor e'en to Pitt, the patriot's palm resign;

Which Envy, wearing Candour's sacred mask,

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