Had’st thou but lived, though stripp’d of power,

      A watchman on the lonely tower,

      Thy thrilling trump had roused the land,

      When fraud or danger were at hand;                        100

      By thee, as by the beacon-light,

      Our pilots had kept course aright;

      As some proud column, though alone,

      Thy strength had propp’d the tottering throne:

      Now is the stately column broke,                          105

      The beacon-light is quench’d in smoke,

      The trumpet’s silver sound is still,

      The warder silent on the hill!

      Oh, think, how to his latest day,

      When Death, just hovering, claim’d his prey,              110

      With Palinure’s unalter’d mood,

      Firm at his dangerous post he stood;

      Each call for needful rest repell’d,

      With dying hand the rudder held,

      Till, in his fall, with fateful sway,                      115

      The steerage of the realm gave way!

      Then, while on Britain’s thousand plains,

      One unpolluted church remains,

      Whose peaceful bells ne’er sent around

      The bloody tocsin’s maddening sound,                      120

      But still, upon the hallow’d day,

      Convoke the swains to praise and pray;

      While faith and civil peace are dear,

      Grace this cold marble with a tear,

      He, who preserved them, PITT, lies here!                  125

        Nor yet suppress the generous sigh,

      Because his rival slumbers nigh;

      Nor be thy requiescat dumb,

      Lest it be said o’er Fox’s tomb.

      For talents mourn, untimely lost,                          130

      When best employ’d, and wanted most;

      Mourn genius high, and lore profound,

      And wit that loved to play, not wound;

      And all the reasoning powers divine,

      To penetrate, resolve, combine;                            135

      And feelings keen, and fancy’s glow, -

      They sleep with him who sleeps below:

      And, if thou mourn’st they could not save

      From error him who owns this grave,

      Be every harsher thought suppress’d,                      140

      And sacred be the last long rest.

      Here, where the end of earthly things

      Lays heroes, patriots, bards, and kings;

      Where stiff the hand, and still the tongue,

      Of those who fought, and spoke, and sung;                  145

      Here, where the fretted aisles prolong

      The distant notes of holy song,

      As if some angel spoke agen,

      ‘All peace on earth, good-will to men;’

      If ever from an English heart,                            150

      O, here let prejudice depart,

      And, partial feeling cast aside,

      Record, that Fox a Briton died!

      When Europe crouch’d to France’s yoke,

      And Austria bent, and Prussia broke,                      155

      And the firm Russian’s purpose brave,

      Was barter’d by a timorous slave,

      Even then dishonour’s peace he spurn’d,

      The sullied olive-branch return’d,

      Stood for his country’s glory fast,                        160

      And nail’d her colours to the mast!

      Heaven, to reward his firmness, gave

      A portion in this honour’d grave,

      And ne’er held marble in its trust

      Of two such wondrous men the dust.                        165

        With more than mortal powers endow’d,

      How high they soar’d above the crowd!

      Theirs was no common party race,

      Jostling by dark intrigue for place;

      Like fabled Gods, their mighty war                        170

      Shook realms and nations in its jar;

      Beneath each banner proud to stand,

      Look’d up the noblest of the land,

      Till through the British world were known

      The names of PITT and Fox alone.                          175

      Spells of such force no wizard grave

      E’er framed in dark Thessalian cave,

      Though his could drain the ocean dry,

      And force the planets from the sky.

      These spells are spent, and, spent with these,            180

      The wine of life is on the lees.

      Genius, and taste, and talent gone,

      For ever tomb’d beneath the stone,

      Where-taming thought to human pride! -

      The mighty chiefs sleep side by side.                      185

      Drop upon Fox’s grave the tear,

      ‘Twill trickle to his rival’s bier;

      O’er PITT’S the mournful requiem sound,

      And Fox’s shall the notes rebound.

      The solemn echo seems to cry, –                             190

      ‘Here let their discord with them die.

      Speak not for those a separate doom,

      Whom Fate made Brothers