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Α Ρ Ο Ε Μ,

TO

THE MEMORY

OF

THE RIGHT HONOURABLE

THE LORD TALBOT,

Late Chancellor of Great-Britain.

TO

THE MEMORY

OF

THE RIGHT HONOURABLE

THE LORD TALBOT.

ADDRESSED TO HIS SON,

WHILE, with the public, you, my Lord, lament
A friend and father lost; permit the Muse, -
The Muse assign’d of old a double theme,
To praise dead worth and humble living pride,
Whose generous task begins where interest ends:
Permit her on a Talbot's tomb to lay
This cordial verse sincere, by truth inspir'd,
Which means not to bestow but borrow fame.
Yes, she may sing his matchless virtues now
Unhappy that she may.-But where begin?
How from the diamond single out each ray,
Where all, though trembling with ten thousand hues,
Effuse one dazzling undivided light?

Let the low-minded of these narrow days
No more presume to deem the lofty tale
Of ancient times, in pity to their own,
Romance. In Talbot, we united saw
The piercing eye, the quick enlighten'd soul,
The graceful ease, the flowing tongue of Greece,
Join'd to the virtues and the force of Rome.

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Eternal Wisdom, that all-quick’ning sun,
Whence every life, in just proportion, draws
Directing light and actuating flame,
Ne'er with a larger portion of its beams
Awaken'd mortal clay. Hence steady, calm,
Diffusive, deep, and clear, his reason saw,
With instantaneous view, the truth of things;
Chief what to human life and human bliss
Pertains, that noblest science, fit for man:
And hence, responsive to his knowledge, glow'd
His ardent virtue. Ignorance and vice,
In consort foul, agree; each heightening each;
While virtue draws from knowledge brighter fire.

What grand, what comely, or what tender sense,
What talent, or what virtue, was not his?
What that can render man or great or good,
Give useful worth, or amiable grace?
Nor could he brook in studious shade to lie,
In soft retirement, indolently pleas'd
With selfish peace. The siren of the wise,
(Who steals th’ Aönian song, and, in the shape
Of virtue, wooes them from a worthless world)
Though deep he felt her charms, could never melt
His strenuous spirit, recollected, calm,
As silent night, yet active as the day.
The more the bold, the bustling, and the bad,
Press to usurp the reins of power, the more
Behoves it virtue, with indignant zeal,
To check their combination. Shall low views
Of sneaking int'rest or luxurious vice,
The villain's passions, quicken more to toil,
And dart a livelier vigour through the soul,
Than those that, mingled with our truest good,
With present honour and immortal fame,

Involve the good of all? An empty form
Is the weak virtue, that amid the shade
Lamenting lies, with future schemes amus’d,
While Wickedness and Folly, kindred powers,
Confound the world. A Talbot's, different far,
Sprung ardent into action: action, that disdain'd
To lose in deathlike sloth one pulse of life,
That might be saved; disdain’d for coward ease,
And her insipid pleasures, to resign
The prize of glory, the keen sweets of toil,
And those high joys that teach the truly great
To live for others, and for others die.

Early, behold! he breaks benign on life.
Not breathing more beneficence, the spring
Leads in her swelling train the gentle airs:
While gay, behind her, smiles the kindling waste
Of ruffian storms and winter's lawless
In him Astrea, to this dim abode
Of ever-wandering men, return'd again:
To bless them his delight, to bring them back,
From thorny error, from unjoyous wrong,
Into the paths of kind primeval faith,
Of happiness and justice. All his parts,
His virtues all, collected, sought the good
Of human kind. For that he, fervent, felt
The throb of patriots, when they model states :
Anxious for that, nor needful sleep could hold
His still-awaken’d soul; nor friends had charms
To steal, with pleasing guile, one useful hour;
Toil knew no languor, no attraction joy..
Thus with unwearied steps, by Virtue led,
He gain'd the summit of that sacred hill,
Where, raised above black Envy's dark’ning clouds,
Her spotless temple lifts its radiant front.

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