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NUCH were the notes, thy once-lov'd Poet sung,
'Till death untimely stop'd his tuneful tongue.
For him, thou oft haft bid the world attend,
For Swift and him, despis’d the farce of state, The sober follies of the wise and great ; Dextrous, the craving, fawning croud to quit, And pleas’d to 'scape from fattery to wit.
Absent or dead, still let a friend he dear, (A sigh the absent claims, the dead a tear) Recal those nights that clos'd thy toilsom days, Still hear thy PARNELL in his living lays: Who careless, now, of int'reft, fame, or fate, Perhaps forgets that OXFORD e'er was great; Or deeming meanest what we greatest call, Beholds theę glorious only in thy fall,
And sure, if ought below the seats divine Can touch Immortals, 'tis a foul like thine: A soul supreme, in each hard instance try'd, Above all pain, all passion, and all pride, The rage of pow'r, the blaft of public breath, The luft of lucre, and the dread of death.
In vain to deserts thy retreat is made i The Muse attends thee to thy filent shade :
'Tis her's, the brave man's latest steps to trace,