POEMS.
33
Nor Those alone, whom earthly grief excites,
Here hang the head.—To grace the funeral rites,
Lo! where a band of bright ethereal Powers
Sigh o'er his corse, and deck his grave with flowers.
There stand the Patriot-Virtues, loath to part
For ever from their favourite home, his heart.
There History droops absorbed in speechless grief,
Blotting with idle tears the unfinished leaf,
And trampling in the dust those useless boughs
Of Bays, she gathered to adorn his brows[1].
Mourning her Sons disfranchised, while her eyes
Pursue the Patriot's shade to opening skies,
Religion there in sable garments stands,
And clasps in meek despair her shackled hands[2].
And there too Peace her olive loves to wave,
And strows its withered leaves on Fox's grave;
For well she knows, e'en at that last sad hour
When Nature yielded to Disease's power,
Here hang the head.—To grace the funeral rites,
Lo! where a band of bright ethereal Powers
Sigh o'er his corse, and deck his grave with flowers.
There stand the Patriot-Virtues, loath to part
For ever from their favourite home, his heart.
There History droops absorbed in speechless grief,
Blotting with idle tears the unfinished leaf,
And trampling in the dust those useless boughs
Of Bays, she gathered to adorn his brows[1].
Mourning her Sons disfranchised, while her eyes
Pursue the Patriot's shade to opening skies,
Religion there in sable garments stands,
And clasps in meek despair her shackled hands[2].
And there too Peace her olive loves to wave,
And strows its withered leaves on Fox's grave;
For well she knows, e'en at that last sad hour
When Nature yielded to Disease's power,
