Though round the tyrant's hated throne
Arm'd legions form an iron zone,
They cannot blunt guilt's scorpion sting;
While Virtue's sacred shield is spread
O'er George's heav'n-protected head,
The Parent and the King.
THE RIGHT HONOURABLE CHARLES JAMES FOX.
[From Mr. R. P. Knight's Monody.]
LIKE all ages, nations, states, and climes,
Abound in talents fit for common times;
Pageants of office, who with starch grimace
Display the garb of sense in pomp of face;
Who, wise in forms, to forms alone attend;
And, busy in the means, neglect the end;
Who, in their little circle's narrow bound,
Think they move forward, while they're moving round
And, dreading innovation, still pursue
The beaten track, when all around is new.
Idols of court, and puppets of debate,
Awhile they deck the pantomime of state;
Like bubbles float upon the tide of power,
And shine the glittering meteors of an hour,
"But genius, choicest gift of favouring Heaven,
Once in a thousand years is scarcely given:
Pure mental essence, of celestial birth,
It rarely mixes with the dross of earth,
To show creation on a nobler plan,
And give the world Heaven's model of a man.
Before it Science, Art, and Learning bend ;
Through all at once its radiant lights extend;
Scorning the aids which humbler minds require,
It mounts spontaneous in electric fire;
Intuitively pierces each disguise,
And drags to light each truth that hidden lies;
In native energy serenely strong,
Pours the full tide of eloquence along;
Prepared alike in every mode to shine,
To guide a senate, or to point a line;
Empires to rule, and armies to direct,
Or metaphysic fallacies detect;
Aloft to soar on fancy's eagle wing,
Or dive self-taught in learning's deepest spring,
Gilding its tract with wisdom's purest ray,
Th' ethereal light of intellectual day.
"Such light was thine, O FOX! in thee alone
With undiminish'd splendor still it shone
From earliest youth, till life's expiring flame
Reluctantly forsook thy wasted frame,
Superior still to all-and e'en in death
Its brightness glimmer'd in thy parting breath:
In life's last ebb the Statesman's wisdom flow'd;
In thought's last gleam the Patriot's vigour glow'd;
Nor pain nor terror mov'd his steady mind;
The pain HE felt was pity for mankind.”
"No pomp of speech, in learning's garb array'd,
Dazzled the ignorant, the weak dismay'd
No pointed sentence of sarcastic wit
The unoffending or defenceles hit ;
No proud display of what His mind contain’d
Abash'd the timid, or the meek restrain'd;
No gaudy rhetorick, with selfish aim,,
In private converse, courted public fame;
No quaint allusion, with ambiguous sense,
To blushing modesty e'er gave offence;
No prim conceit, in foppish neatness drest,
No hoarded repartee, or studied jest,
Slyly conceal'd, in watchful ambush lay
Till apt occasion prompted its display.
"Above each trick of art His genius tower'd,
And intellect's full tide spontaneous pour'd;
To embellish truth with unforc'd effort sought;
With observation just and vigorous thought;
With sense profound, in richest fancy drest;
With learning's stores, in purest taste exprest;
Deep and yet clear its copious currents roll'd
Their amber waves o'er beds of native gold."
"While o'er His tomb desponding millions moan,
Who in His fate anticipate their own;
For HIM, though borne on an untimely bier,
Philosophy shall dry Affection's tear:
For what, alas! can length of days bestow,
But lengthen'd misery and lengthen'd woe?
"Tis but in pain to draw precarious breath,
Shivering beneath th' impending dart of Death;
Benumb'd in duil forgetfulness to sleep,
Or for expiring friends to wake and weep;
Like some old oak, upon a naked strand,
The relict of a fallen grove to stand;
Upon whose wither'd, bald, and blighted head,
The damps of every passing cloud are shed;
From whose bare trunk, now mouldering in decay,
Each passing tempest tears some limb away:
Whose roots, exposed beneath th' inclement sky,
No more its vita! nourishment supply:
Th' incumbrance of the soil it falls at last,
Th' unheeded victim of some wintry blast."
For the Anniversary of the Literary Fund, April 18, 1807.
By HENRY JAMES PYE, Esq. Poet Laureat.
Recited by Aaron Graham, Esq.
First gushes from the cavern's mossy bed,
Dashing from rock to rock the scanty rill,
With no luxuriant herbage clothes the hill;
Yet when increas'd the ampler current flows,
Each bordering mead with deeper verdure glows;
Its lingering waves thro' painted valleys glide,
And Health and Plenty deck its flowery side;
So when at first a kind and generous few
Celestial Charity's ambrosial dew
O'er the neglected sons of learning shed,
Sooth'd the swol'n breast, and rear'd the drooping head,
Small were the boons, and casual the relief,
Their scanty source could yield to letter'd grief,
Till Britain saw their godlike aim,
And fann'd with fav'ring breath the rising flame;
Joining the efforts of the patriot band,
With sympathetic heart, and gen'rous hand.
Till far and wide the genial zeal extends,
And Science triumphs in her num'rous friends.
See first, and greatest, in our records shine The princely heir of Brunswick's royal line; And grateful Science hails with proud acclaim, The patron of her sons in GEORGE's name.
Nobles of yore, that Britain's annals grace,
Statesmen, and warlike chiefs, a patriot race:
And those whom Commerce crowns, with liberal hand,
Their wealth the glory of a prosperous land,
In Learning's cause with liberal zeal unite,
And aid of rising truth the radiant light.
And lo! one glorious friend, tho' low he lie,
Tho' the dark shades of Death have veil'd his eye;
Allied to him whose active spirit saw,
'Mid Heaven's stupendous orbs, th' Eternal's law;
Thro' boundless ether trac'd their wond'rous way,
Or careful analyz'd the solar ray;
With bounteous hand a splendid gift bestows,
At Newton's name again fair Science glows:
Nor ever shall the virtuous and the brave
Regret the boons to letter'd worth they gave,
On that for endless fame the brave rely,
"The muse forbids the virtuous man to die!"
Illum'd by Science from the face of Heav'n,
I see the murky shades of Ignorance driv'n,
Dark Prejudice forsake th' enlighten'd shore,
And Persecution wave her rod no more;
Slav'ry, who never trod Britannia's plains,
Shall fly from ev'ry soil where Britain reigns;
Mourn with dejected eye her iron yoke
Dash'd on the dust, her scourge vindictive broke.
"While the freed Libyan in his native groves,
Reaps his own fruits, and wooes his sable loves."
Wild Superstition too, with Gorgon face,
No more shall Truth's celestial form debase;
Wak'd from the gloom of Folly's frantic dream
By pure Religion's-bright unsullied beam;
And the mild precepts of a faith divine,
By human weakness unobscur'd, shall shine.
Such Britain's hopes; but see a giant Pow'r
On Britain's hopes with brow malignant low'r;
Proud in colossal bulk, elate it stands,
And shakes a mace o'er Europe's trembling lands.
Sated with human gore, its fiend-like smiles
Vindictive glare on these devoted isles.
Britons, arouse -No safety can ye know,
But from the fall of this injurious foe.
Mr. Newton, a collateral descendant of sir Isaac, has lately bequcathed a legacy,
of nearly 5000L to the use of the Literary Fund.
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