SCOTT
To mute and to material thingsNew life revolving summer brings;The genial call dead Nature hears,And in her glory reappears.But O my Country’s wintry stateWhat second spring shall renovate?What powerful call shall bid ariseThe buried warlike and the wise;The mind that thought for Britain’s weal,The hand that grasped the victor steel?The vernal sun new life bestowsEven on the meanest flower that blows;But vainly, vainly may he shine,Where glory weeps o’erNelson’sshrine;And vainly pierce the solemn gloom,That shrouds, OPitt, thy hallowed tomb!Deep graved in every British heart,O never let those names depart!Say to your sons,—Lo, here his grave,Who victor died on Gadite wave;To him, as to the burning levin,Short, bright, resistless course was given.Where’er his country’s foes were foundWas heard the fated thunder’s sound,Till burst the bolt on yonder shore,Rolled, blazed, destroyed,—and was no more.Nor mourn ye less his perished worth,Who bade the conqueror go forth,And launched that thunderbolt of warOn Egypt, Hafnia, Trafalgar;Who, born to guide such high emprise,For Britain’s weal was early wise;Alas! to whom the Almighty gave,For Britain’s sins, an early grave!His worth, who in his mightiest hourA bauble held the pride of power,Spurned at the sordid lust of pelf,And served his Albion for herself;Who, from the frantic crowd amainStrained at subjection’s bursting rein,O’er their wild mood full conquest gained,The pride he would not crush restrained,Showed their fierce zeal a worthier cause,And brought the freeman’s arm to aid the freeman’s laws.Hadst thou but lived, though stripped of power,A watchman on the lonely tower,Thy thrilling trump had roused the land,When fraud or danger were at hand;By thee, as by the beacon-light,Our pilots had kept course aright;As some proud column, though alone,Thy strength had propped the tottering throne:Now is the stately column broke,The beacon-light is quenched in smoke,The trumpet’s silver sound is still,The warder silent on the hill!O think, how to his latest day,When death, just hovering, claimed his prey,With Palinure’s unaltered moodFirm at his dangerous post he stood;Each call for needful rest repelled,With dying hand the rudder held,Till in his fall with fateful sway,The steerage of the realm gave way!Then, while on Britain’s thousand plainsOne unpolluted church remains,Whose peaceful bells ne’er sent aroundThe bloody tocsin’s maddening sound,But still, upon the hallowed 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!Nor yet suppress the generous sigh,Because his rival slumbers nigh;Nor be thyrequiescatdumb,Lest it be said o’erFox’stomb.For talents mourn, untimely lost,When best employed, 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;And feelings keen, and fancy’s glow,—They sleep with him who sleeps below:And, if thou mourn’st they could not saveFrom error him who owns this grave,Be ever harsher thought suppressed,And sacred be the long last rest.Here, where the end of earthly thingsLays heroes, patriots, bards, and kings;Where stiff the hand, and still the tongue,Of those who fought, and spoke and sung;Here, where the fretted aisles prolongThe 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,O,herelet prejudice depart,And, partial feeling cast aside,Record, thatFoxa Briton died!When Europe crouched to France’s yoke,And Austria bent, and Prussia broke,And the firm Russian’s purpose braveWas bartered by a timorous slave,Even then dishonour’s peace he spurned,The sullied olive-branch returned,Stood for his country’s glory fast,And nailed her colours to the mast!Heaven, to reward his firmness, gaveA portion in this honoured grave,And ne’er held marble in its trustOf two such wondrous men the dust.With more than mortal powers endowed,How high they soared above the crowd!Theirs was no common party race,Jostling by dark intrigue for place;Like fabled Gods, their mighty warShook realms and nations in its jar;Beneath each banner proud to stand,Looked up the noblest of the land,Till through the British world were knownThe names ofPittandFoxalone.Spells of such force no wizard graveE’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 theseThe wine of life is on the lees.Genius, and taste, and talent gone,For ever tombed beneath the stone,Where—taming thought to human pride!—The mighty chiefs sleep side by side.Drop uponFox’sgrave the tear,’Twill trickle to his rival’s bier;O’erPitt’sthe mournful requiem sound,AndFox’sshall the notes rebound.The solemn echo seems to cry,—‘Here let their discord with them die.Speak not for those a separate doomWhom fate made Brothers in the tomb;But search the land of living men,Where wilt thou find their like agen?’Sir Walter Scott.
To mute and to material thingsNew life revolving summer brings;The genial call dead Nature hears,And in her glory reappears.But O my Country’s wintry stateWhat second spring shall renovate?What powerful call shall bid ariseThe buried warlike and the wise;The mind that thought for Britain’s weal,The hand that grasped the victor steel?The vernal sun new life bestowsEven on the meanest flower that blows;But vainly, vainly may he shine,Where glory weeps o’erNelson’sshrine;And vainly pierce the solemn gloom,That shrouds, OPitt, thy hallowed tomb!Deep graved in every British heart,O never let those names depart!Say to your sons,—Lo, here his grave,Who victor died on Gadite wave;To him, as to the burning levin,Short, bright, resistless course was given.Where’er his country’s foes were foundWas heard the fated thunder’s sound,Till burst the bolt on yonder shore,Rolled, blazed, destroyed,—and was no more.Nor mourn ye less his perished worth,Who bade the conqueror go forth,And launched that thunderbolt of warOn Egypt, Hafnia, Trafalgar;Who, born to guide such high emprise,For Britain’s weal was early wise;Alas! to whom the Almighty gave,For Britain’s sins, an early grave!His worth, who in his mightiest hourA bauble held the pride of power,Spurned at the sordid lust of pelf,And served his Albion for herself;Who, from the frantic crowd amainStrained at subjection’s bursting rein,O’er their wild mood full conquest gained,The pride he would not crush restrained,Showed their fierce zeal a worthier cause,And brought the freeman’s arm to aid the freeman’s laws.Hadst thou but lived, though stripped of power,A watchman on the lonely tower,Thy thrilling trump had roused the land,When fraud or danger were at hand;By thee, as by the beacon-light,Our pilots had kept course aright;As some proud column, though alone,Thy strength had propped the tottering throne:Now is the stately column broke,The beacon-light is quenched in smoke,The trumpet’s silver sound is still,The warder silent on the hill!O think, how to his latest day,When death, just hovering, claimed his prey,With Palinure’s unaltered moodFirm at his dangerous post he stood;Each call for needful rest repelled,With dying hand the rudder held,Till in his fall with fateful sway,The steerage of the realm gave way!Then, while on Britain’s thousand plainsOne unpolluted church remains,Whose peaceful bells ne’er sent aroundThe bloody tocsin’s maddening sound,But still, upon the hallowed 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!Nor yet suppress the generous sigh,Because his rival slumbers nigh;Nor be thyrequiescatdumb,Lest it be said o’erFox’stomb.For talents mourn, untimely lost,When best employed, 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;And feelings keen, and fancy’s glow,—They sleep with him who sleeps below:And, if thou mourn’st they could not saveFrom error him who owns this grave,Be ever harsher thought suppressed,And sacred be the long last rest.Here, where the end of earthly thingsLays heroes, patriots, bards, and kings;Where stiff the hand, and still the tongue,Of those who fought, and spoke and sung;Here, where the fretted aisles prolongThe 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,O,herelet prejudice depart,And, partial feeling cast aside,Record, thatFoxa Briton died!When Europe crouched to France’s yoke,And Austria bent, and Prussia broke,And the firm Russian’s purpose braveWas bartered by a timorous slave,Even then dishonour’s peace he spurned,The sullied olive-branch returned,Stood for his country’s glory fast,And nailed her colours to the mast!Heaven, to reward his firmness, gaveA portion in this honoured grave,And ne’er held marble in its trustOf two such wondrous men the dust.With more than mortal powers endowed,How high they soared above the crowd!Theirs was no common party race,Jostling by dark intrigue for place;Like fabled Gods, their mighty warShook realms and nations in its jar;Beneath each banner proud to stand,Looked up the noblest of the land,Till through the British world were knownThe names ofPittandFoxalone.Spells of such force no wizard graveE’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 theseThe wine of life is on the lees.Genius, and taste, and talent gone,For ever tombed beneath the stone,Where—taming thought to human pride!—The mighty chiefs sleep side by side.Drop uponFox’sgrave the tear,’Twill trickle to his rival’s bier;O’erPitt’sthe mournful requiem sound,AndFox’sshall the notes rebound.The solemn echo seems to cry,—‘Here let their discord with them die.Speak not for those a separate doomWhom fate made Brothers in the tomb;But search the land of living men,Where wilt thou find their like agen?’Sir Walter Scott.
To mute and to material thingsNew life revolving summer brings;The genial call dead Nature hears,And in her glory reappears.But O my Country’s wintry stateWhat second spring shall renovate?What powerful call shall bid ariseThe buried warlike and the wise;The mind that thought for Britain’s weal,The hand that grasped the victor steel?The vernal sun new life bestowsEven on the meanest flower that blows;But vainly, vainly may he shine,Where glory weeps o’erNelson’sshrine;And vainly pierce the solemn gloom,That shrouds, OPitt, thy hallowed tomb!
Deep graved in every British heart,O never let those names depart!Say to your sons,—Lo, here his grave,Who victor died on Gadite wave;To him, as to the burning levin,Short, bright, resistless course was given.Where’er his country’s foes were foundWas heard the fated thunder’s sound,Till burst the bolt on yonder shore,Rolled, blazed, destroyed,—and was no more.
Nor mourn ye less his perished worth,Who bade the conqueror go forth,And launched that thunderbolt of warOn Egypt, Hafnia, Trafalgar;Who, born to guide such high emprise,For Britain’s weal was early wise;Alas! to whom the Almighty gave,For Britain’s sins, an early grave!His worth, who in his mightiest hourA bauble held the pride of power,Spurned at the sordid lust of pelf,And served his Albion for herself;Who, from the frantic crowd amainStrained at subjection’s bursting rein,O’er their wild mood full conquest gained,The pride he would not crush restrained,Showed their fierce zeal a worthier cause,And brought the freeman’s arm to aid the freeman’s laws.
Hadst thou but lived, though stripped of power,A watchman on the lonely tower,Thy thrilling trump had roused the land,When fraud or danger were at hand;By thee, as by the beacon-light,Our pilots had kept course aright;As some proud column, though alone,Thy strength had propped the tottering throne:Now is the stately column broke,The beacon-light is quenched in smoke,The trumpet’s silver sound is still,The warder silent on the hill!
O think, how to his latest day,When death, just hovering, claimed his prey,With Palinure’s unaltered moodFirm at his dangerous post he stood;Each call for needful rest repelled,With dying hand the rudder held,Till in his fall with fateful sway,The steerage of the realm gave way!Then, while on Britain’s thousand plainsOne unpolluted church remains,Whose peaceful bells ne’er sent aroundThe bloody tocsin’s maddening sound,But still, upon the hallowed 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!
Nor yet suppress the generous sigh,Because his rival slumbers nigh;Nor be thyrequiescatdumb,Lest it be said o’erFox’stomb.For talents mourn, untimely lost,When best employed, 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;And feelings keen, and fancy’s glow,—They sleep with him who sleeps below:And, if thou mourn’st they could not saveFrom error him who owns this grave,Be ever harsher thought suppressed,And sacred be the long last rest.Here, where the end of earthly thingsLays heroes, patriots, bards, and kings;Where stiff the hand, and still the tongue,Of those who fought, and spoke and sung;Here, where the fretted aisles prolongThe 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,O,herelet prejudice depart,And, partial feeling cast aside,Record, thatFoxa Briton died!When Europe crouched to France’s yoke,And Austria bent, and Prussia broke,And the firm Russian’s purpose braveWas bartered by a timorous slave,Even then dishonour’s peace he spurned,The sullied olive-branch returned,Stood for his country’s glory fast,And nailed her colours to the mast!Heaven, to reward his firmness, gaveA portion in this honoured grave,And ne’er held marble in its trustOf two such wondrous men the dust.With more than mortal powers endowed,How high they soared above the crowd!Theirs was no common party race,Jostling by dark intrigue for place;Like fabled Gods, their mighty warShook realms and nations in its jar;Beneath each banner proud to stand,Looked up the noblest of the land,Till through the British world were knownThe names ofPittandFoxalone.Spells of such force no wizard graveE’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 theseThe wine of life is on the lees.Genius, and taste, and talent gone,For ever tombed beneath the stone,Where—taming thought to human pride!—The mighty chiefs sleep side by side.Drop uponFox’sgrave the tear,’Twill trickle to his rival’s bier;O’erPitt’sthe mournful requiem sound,AndFox’sshall the notes rebound.The solemn echo seems to cry,—‘Here let their discord with them die.Speak not for those a separate doomWhom fate made Brothers in the tomb;But search the land of living men,Where wilt thou find their like agen?’
Sir Walter Scott.