Of free accefs, and of engaging grace,
Such as a brother to a brother owes,
He kept an open judging ear for all,
And spread an open countenance, where fmil'd
The fair effulgence of an open heart;
While on the rich, the poor, the high, the low,
With equal ray, his ready goodness shone:
For nothing human foreign was to him.
Thus to a dread inheritance, my Lord,
And hard to be fupported, you fucceed;
But kept by virtue, as by virtue gain'd,
It will, thro' latest time, enrich your race,
When groffer wealth fhall moulder into dust, 280
And with their authors in oblivion funk
Vain titles lie, the fervile badges oft'
Of mean fubmiffion, not the meed of worth.
True genuine honour its large patent holds
Of all mankind, thro' every land and age,
Of univerfal Reafon's various fons,
And even of God himfelf, fole perfect Judge!
Yet know these nobleft honours of the mind
On rigid terms defcend: the high-plac'd heir,
Scann'd by the public eye, that, with keen gaze, 290
Malignant feeks out faults, cannot thro' life,
Amid the nameless infects of a court,
Unheeded fteal; but, with his fire compar'd,
He must be glorious, or he must be fcorn'd.
This truth to you, who merit well to bear
A name to Britons dear, th' officious Mufe
May fafely fing, and fing without reserve.
Vain were the plaint, and ignorant the tear,
That should a Talbot mourn, Ourfelves, indeed,
Our country robb'd of her delight and ftrength, 300
We may lament: yet let us, grateful, joy
That we fuch virtues knew, fuch virtues felt,
And feel them ftill, teaching our views to rife
Thro' ever-bright'ning scenes of future worlds.
Be dumb, ye worst of Zealots! ye that, prone 305
To thoughtless duft, renounce that generous hope,
Whence every joy below its spirit draws,
And every pain its balm. A Talbot's light,
A Talbot's virtues, claim another fource
Than the blind maze of undefigning blood;
Nor when that vital fountain plays no more,
Can they be quench'd amid the gelid ftream.
Methinks I fee his mounting spirit, freed From tangling earth, regain the realms of day, Its native country, whence, to bless mankind, 315 Eternal Goodness on this darksome spot Had ray'd it down a while. Behold! approv'd By the tremendous Judge of heaven and earth, And to th' Almighty Father's prefence join'd, He takes his rank, in glory and in blifs, Amid the human worthies. Glad around Crowd his compatriot fhades, and point him out, With joyful pride, Britannia's blameless boast.
Ah! who is he that with a fonder eye
Meets thine enraptur'd-'Tis the beft of fons! 325
The best of friends!-Too foon is realiz'd
That hope which once forbade thy tears to flow!
Mean while the kindred fouls of every land
(Howe'er divided in the fretful days
Of prejudice and error), mingled now,
In one felected never-jarring ftate,
Where God himself their only monarch reigns,
Partake the joy; yet, fuch the sense that still
Remains of earthly woes, for us below,
And for our lofs, they drop a pitying tear.
But ceafe, prefumptuous Mufe! nor vainly strive
To quit this cloudy sphere that binds thee down;
'Tis not for mortal hand to trace these scenes,
Scenes that our grofs ideas grovelling caft
Behind, and strike our boldest language dumb. 340
Forgive, immortal Shade! if aught from earth,
From duft low-warbled, to those groves can rise,
Where flows celeftial harmony, forgive
This fond superfluous verfe. With deep-felt voice,
On every heart impress'd, thy deeds themselves 345
Atteft thy praise. Thy praise the widows' sighs
And orphans' tears embalm. The good, the bad,
The fons of Juftice, and the sons of Strife,
All who or freedom or who intereft prize,
A deep-divided nation's parties all
Conspire to fwell thy spotless praise to heaven.
Glad heaven receives it, and feraphic lyres
With fongs of triumph thy arrival hail.
How vain this tribute, then! this lowly lay!
Yet nought is vain which gratitude infpires.
The Mufe, befides, her duty thus approves
To virtue, to her country, to mankind,
To ruling Nature, that, in glorious charge,
As to her prieftefs, gives it her, to hymn
Whatever good and excellent the forms.
DEATH OF MR. AIKMAN,
A particular friend of the Author's. As thofe we love decay, we die in part, String after string is fever'd from the heart, Till loosen❜d life, at last, but breathing clay, Without one pang is glad to fall away.
Unhappy he who latest feels the blow,
Whose eyes have wept o'er every friend laid low, Dragg'd ling'ring on from partial death to death, Till, dying, all he can refign is breath.
TO THE REV. MR. MURDOCH,
RECTOR OF STRADDISHALL IN SUFFOLK, 1738. THUS
HUS fafely low, my Friend! thou can'st not fall: Here reigns a deep tranquillity o'er all:
No noise, no care, no vanity, no ftrife;
Men, woods, and fields, all breathe untroubled life.
Then keep each paffion down, however dear;
Truft me, the tender are the most severe.
Guard, while 'tis thine, thy philofophic ease,
And ask no joy but that of virtuous peace;
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