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This, this indeed, is patronizing worth.
Their kind protector him the Muses own,
But fcorn with noble pride the boasted aid
Of tasteless vanity's insulting hand.
The gracious stream, that chears the letter'd world,
Is not the noisy gift of summer's noon,
Whose sudden current, from the naked root,
Washes the little foil which yet remain'd,
And only more dejects the blushing flowers:
No, 'tis the soft-descending dews at eve,
The silent treasures of the vernal year,
Indulging deep their stores, the still night long;
Till, with returning morn, the freshen'd world,
Is fragrance all, all beauty, joy, and song.

Still let me view him in the pleasing light
Of private life, where pomp forgets to glare,
And where the plain unguarded soul is seen.
There, with that truest greatness he appear'd,
Which thinks not of appearing; kindly veil'd
In the foft graces of the friendly scene,
Inspiring social confidence and ease.
As free the converse of the wise and good,
As joyous, disentangling every power,
And breathing mix'd improvement with delight,
As when amid the various-blossom'd spring,
Or gentle-beaming autumn's penfive shade,
The philofophic mind with Nature talks.
Say ye, his Sons, his dear remains, with whom
The father laid superfluous state aside,
Yet rais'd your filial duty thence the more,
With friendship rais'd it, with esteem, with love,
Beyond the ties of blood, oh! speak the joy,
The pure ferene, the chearful wisdom mild,

The virtuous fpirit, which his vacant hours,
In femblance of amusement, thro' the breast
Infus’d. And thou, O Rundle*! lend thy strain,
Thou darling friend! thou brother of his soul!
In whom the head and heart their stores unite:
Whatever fancy paints, invention pours,
Judgment digests, the well-tun'd bosom feels,
Truth natural, moral, or divine, has taught,
The Virtues dictate, or the Muses fing.
Lend me the plaint, which, to the lonely main,
With memory conversing, you will pour,
As on the pebbled shore you, penfive, stray,
Where Derry's mountains a bleak crescent form,
And mid their ample round receive the waves,
That from the frozen pole, resounding, rush,
Impetuous. Tho' from native fun-fhine driven,
Driven from your friends, the sun-shine of the soul,
By slanderous zeal, and politics infirm,
Jealous of worth; yet will you bless your lot,
Yet will you triumph in your glorious fate,
Whence Talbot's friendship glows to fućure times,
Intrepid, warm; of kindred tempers born;
Nurs’d, by experience, into flow esteem,
Calm confidence unbounded, love not blind,
And the sweet light from mingled minds disclos’d,
From mingled chymic oils as bursts the fire.

I too remember well that chearful bowl,
Which round his table flow'd. The serious there
Mix'd with the sportive, with the learn’d the plain;
Mirth foften'd wisdom, candour temper'd mirth;
And wit its honey lent, without the sting.
Not simple Nature's unaffected fons,

* Dr. Rúndle, late Bishop of Derry in Ireland,

The blameless Indians, round the forest-chear,
In sunny lawn or shady covert fet,
Hold more unspotted converse: nor, of old,
Rome's awful consuls, her dictator-swains,

on the product of their Sabine farms
They far'd, with stricter virtue fed the foul:
Nor yet in Athens, at an Attic meal,
Where Socrates presided, fairer truth,
More elegant humanity, more grace,
Wit more refin'd, or deeper science reign’d.

But far beyond the little vulgar bounds
Of family, or friends, or native land,
By just degrees, and with proportion’d flame,
Extended his benevolence: a friend
To human kind, to parent Nature's works.
Of free access, and of engaging grace,
Such as a brother to a brother owes,
He kept an open judging ear for all,
And spread an open countenance, where smild
The fair effulgence of an open heart;
While on the rich, the poor, the high, the low,
With equal ray, his ready goodness fhone:
For nothing human foreign was to bim.

Thus to a dread inheritance, my Lord,
And hard to be supported, you succeed :
But kept by virtue, as by virtue gain'd,
It will, thro’ latest time, enrich your race,
When grosser wealth shall moulder into dust,
And with their authors in oblivion sunk
Vain titles lie, the servile badges oft
Of mean subrniffion, not the meed of worth.
True genuine honour its large patent holds
Of all mankind, thro' every land and age,

Of universal Reason's various sons,
And even of God himself, fole perfect Judge!
Yet knows these noblest honours of the mind
On rigid terms descend: the high-plac'd heir,
Scann'd by the public eye, that, with keen gaze,
Malignant seeks out faults, cannot thro' life,
Amid the nameless insects of a court,
Unheeded steal: but, with his fire compar'd,
He ntust be glorious, or he must be scorn'd.
This truth to you, who merit well to bear
A name to Britons dear, th' officious Muse
May safely sing, and sing without reserve.

Vain were the plaint, and ignorant the tear
That should a Talbot mourn, Ourselves, indeed,
Our country robb'd of her delight and strength,
We may lament. Yet let us, grateful, joy,
That we such virtues knew, such virtues felt,
And feel them still, teaching our views to rise
Thro' ever-brightning scenes of future worlds.
Be dumb, ye worst of zealots! ye that, prone
To thoughtless duft, renounce that generous hope,
Whence every joy below its spirit draws,
And every pain its balm: a Talbot's light,
A Talbot's virtues claim another source,
Than the blind maze of undesigning blood;
Nor when that vital fountain plays no more,
Can they be quench'd amid the gelid stream.

Methinks I fee his mounting fpirit, freed
From tangling earth, regain the realms of day,
Its native country, whence, to bless mankind,
Eternal Goodness, on this darksome spot,
Had ray'd it down a while. Behold! approv'd
By the tremendous Judge of heaven and earth,

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And to th' Almighty Father's presence join'd, 1.
He takes his rank, in glory, and in bliss,
Amid the human worthies. Gląd around
Crowd his compatriot shades, and point him out
With joyful pride, Britannia's blameless boast.
Ah! who is he, that with a fonder eye con
Meets thine enraptur'd!'Tis the best of fons!
The best of friends! -Too soon is realiz'd
That hope, which once forbad thy tears to flow!
Mean-while the kindred fouls of every land,
(Howe'er divided in the fretful days
Of prejudice and error) mingled now,
In one selected never-jarring state,
Where God himself their only monarch reigns,
Partake the joy; yet, such the sense that still
Remains of earthly woes, for us below,
And for our loss they drop a pitying tear.
But cease, presumptuous Muse, nor vainly strive
To quit this cloudy sphere that binds thee down:
'Tis not for mortal hand to trace these scenes,
Scenes, that our gross ideas grovelling cast
Behind, and strike our boldest language dumb.

Forgive, immortal shade! if aught from earth,
From dust low-warbled, to those groves can rife,
Where flows celestial harmony, forgive
This fond fuperfluous verse. With deep-felt voice,
On every heart impress'd, thy deeds themselves
Attest thy praise. Thy praise the widow's sighs,
And orphan's tears embalm. The good, the bad,
The sons of justice and the fons of strife,
All who or freedom or who interest prize,
A deep-divided nation's parties all,
Conspire to swell thy spotless praise to heaven.

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