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An aspect, to whose sure benignity
Beasts with instinctive confidence could trust,
Which at a glance obtained respect from men,
And won at once good will from all the good.

Such as in semblance, such in word and deed
Lisbon beheld him, when for many a year
The even tenour of his spotless life
Adorn’d the English Church,..her minister
In that strong hold of Rome's idolatry,
To God and man approved. What Englishman,
Who in those peaceful days of Portugal
Resorted thither, curious to observe
Her cities, and the works and ways of men,
But sought him, and from his abundant stores
Of knowledge profited ? What stricken one,
Sent thither to protract a living death,
Forlorn perhaps, and friendless else, but found
A friend in him? What mourners,.. who had seen
The object of their agonizing hopes
In that sad cypress ground deposited,
Wherein so many a flower of British growth,
Untimely faded and cut down, is laid,
In foreign earth compress'd, .. but bore away
A life-long sense of his compassionate care,
His Christian goodness? Faithful shepherd he,

And vigilant against the wolves, who there,
If entrance might be won, would straight beset
The dying stranger, and with merciless zeal
Bay the death-bed! In every family
Throughout his fold was he the welcome guest,
Alike to every generation dear,
The children's favourite, and the grandsire's friend,
Tried, trusted and beloved. So liberal too
In secret alms, even to his utmost means,
That they who served him, and who saw in part
The channels where his constant bounty ran,
Maugre their own uncharitable faith,
Believed him, for his works, secure of Heaven.

It would have been a grief for me to think
The features, which so perfectly express'd
That excellent mind, should irretrievably
From earth have past away, existing now
Only in some few faithful memories
Insoul'd, and not by any limner's skill
To be imbodied thence. A blessing then
On him, in whose prophetic counterfeit
Preserved, the children now, who were the crown
Of his old age, may see their father's face,
Flere to the very life pourtray'd, as when
Spain's mountain passes, and her ilex woods,

And fragrant wildernesses, side by side,
With him I traversed, in my morn of youth.
And gathered knowledge from his full discourse.
Often in former years I pointed out,
Well-pleased, the casual portrait, which so well
Assorted in all points; and haply since,
While lingering o'er this meditative work,
Sometimes that likeness, not unconsciously,
Hath tinged the strain ; and therefore, for the sake
Of this resemblance, are these volumes now
Thus to his memory properly inscribed.

O friend ! O more than father! whom I found
Forbearing alway, alway kind; to whom
No gratitude can speak the debt I owe;
Far on their earthly pilgrimage advanced
Are they who knew thee when we drew the breath
Of that delicious clime! The most are gone;
And whoso yet survive of those who then
Were in their summer season, on the tree
Of life hang here and there like wintry leaves,
Which the first breeze will from the bough bring down.
I, too, am in the sear, the yellow leaf.
And yet, (no wish is nearer to my heart;)
One arduous labour more, as unto thee
In duty bound, full fain would I compleat,

(So Heaven permit,) recording faithfully
The heroic rise, the glories, the decline,
Of that fallen country, dear to us, wherein
The better portion of thy days was past;
And where, in fruitful intercourse with thee,
My intellectual life received betimes
The bias it hath kept. Poor Portugal,
In us thou harbouredst no ungrateful guests!
We loved thee well; mother magnanimous
Of mighty intellects and faithful hearts,..
For such in other times thou wert, nor yet
To be despair'd of, for not yet, methinks,
Degenerate wholly,.. yes, we loved thee well!
And in thy moving story, (so but life
Be given me to mature the gathered store
Of thirty years,) poet, and politick,
And Christian sage (only philosopher
Who from the Well of living water drinks
Never to thirst again), shall find, I ween,
For fancy, and for profitable thought,
Abundant food.

Alas! should this be given,
Such consummation of my work will now
Be but a mournful close, the one being gone,
Whom to have satisfied was still to me
A pure reward, outweighing far all breath

Of public praise. O friend revered, O guide
And fellow-labourer in this ample field,
How large a portion of myself hath past
With thee, from earth to Heaven!.. Thus they who reach
Grey hairs, die piecemeal. But in good old age
Thou hast departed;.. not to be bewailed,..
Oh no! The promise on the Mount vouchsafed,
Nor abrogate by any later law
Reveal'd to man,.. that promise, as by thee
Full piously deserved, was faithfully
In thee fulfill’d, and in the land thy days
Were long. I would not, as I saw thee last,
For a king's ransom have detain'd thee here,..
Bent, like the antique sculptor's limbless trunk,
By chronic pain, yet with thine eye unquench’d,
The ear undimm'd, the mind retentive still,
The heart unchanged, the intellectual lamp
Burning in its corporeal sepulchre !
No; not if human wishes had had power
To have suspended Nature's constant work,
Would they who loved thee have detained thee thus,
Waiting for death.

That trance is over. Thou
Art entered on thy heavenly heritage;
And I, whose dial of mortality
Points to the eleventh hour, shall follow soon.

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