The virtuous fpirit, which his vacant hours,
In femblance of amusement, thro' the breast
Infus'd. And thou, O Rundle*! lend thy ftrain,
Thou darling friend! thou brother of his foul!
In whom the head and heart their ftores unite:
Whatever fancy paints, invention pours,
Judgment digefts, the well-tun'd bofom feels,
Truth natural, moral, or divine, has taught,
The Virtues dictate, or the Mufes fing.
Lend me the plaint, which, to the lonely main,
With memory converfing, you will pour,
As on the pebbled fhore you, penfive, ftray,
Where Derry's mountains a bleak crefcent form,
And mid their ample round receive the waves,
That from the frozen pole, refounding, rush,
Impetuous. Tho' from native fun-shine driven,
Driven from your friends, the fun-fhine of the foul,
By flanderous 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 future 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 burfts the fire.
I too remember well that chearful bowl,
Which round his table flow'd. The ferious there
Mix'd with the sportive, with the learn'd the plain;
Mirth foften'd wifdom, candour temper'd mirth;
And wit its honey lent, without the sting.
Not fimple Nature's unaffected fons,
* Dr. Rúndle, late Bishop of Derry in Ireland,
The blameless Indians, round the foreft-chear,
In funny lawn or fhady covert set,
Hold more unfpotted converse: nor, of old,
Rome's awful confuls, her dictator-fwains,
As on the product of their Sabine farms
They far'd, with ftricter virtue fed the foul:
Nor yet in Athens, at an Attic meal,
Where Socrates prefided, fairer truth,
More elegant humanity, more grace,
Wit more refin'd, or deeper fcience reign'd.
But far beyond the little vulgar bounds
Of family, or friends, or native land,
By juft degrees, and with proportion'd flame,
Extended his benevolence: a friend
To human kind, to parent Nature's works.
Of free accefs, 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 fmil'd
The fair effulgence of an open heart;
While on the rich, the poor, the high, the low,
With equal ray, his ready goodness shone:
For nothing human foreign was to him.
Thus to a dread inheritance, my Lord,
And hard to be fupported, you fucceed:
But kept by virtue, as by virtue gain'd,
It will, thro' latest time, enrich your race,
When groffer wealth fhall moulder into dust,
And with their authors in oblivion funk
Vain titles lie, the fervile badges oft
Of mean fubrniffion, not the meed of worth.
True genuine honour its large patent holds
Of all mankind, thro' every land and age,
Of univerfal Reason's various fons,
And even of GOD himself, fole perfect Judge!
Yet knows these nobleft honours of the mind
On rigid terms descend: the high-plac'd heir,
Scann'd by the public eye, that, with keen gaze,
Malignant feeks out faults, cannot thro' life,
Amid the nameless infects of a court,
Unheeded steal: but, with his fire compar'd,
He must be glorious, or he must be fcorn'd.
This truth to you, who merit well to bear
A name to Britons dear, th' officious Mufe
May fafely fing, and fing without reserve.
Vain were the plaint, and ignorant the tear
That fhould a Talbot mourn. Ourfelves, indeed,
Our country robb'd of her delight and ftrength,
We may lament. Yet let us, grateful, joy,
That we fuch virtues knew, fuch virtues felt,
And feel them ftill, teaching our views to rise
Thro' ever-bright'ning 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 fpirit draws,
And every pain its balm: a Talbot's light,
A Talbot's virtues claim another fource,
Than the blind maze of undefigning blood;
Nor when that vital fountain plays no more,
Can they be quench'd amid the gelid ftream.
Methinks I fee his mounting fpirit, freed From tangling earth, regain the realms of day, Its native country, whence, to blefs mankind, Eternal Goodnefs, on this darksome spot, Had ray'd it down a while. Behold! approv'd By the tremendous Judge of heaven and earth,
And to th' Almighty Father's prefence join'd,
He takes his rank, in glory, and in blifs,
Amid the human worthies. Glad around,
Crowd his compatriot shades, and point him out
With joyful pride, Britannia's blameless boaft.
Ah! who is he, that with a fonder eye
Meets thine enraptur'd?-'Tis the best of fons!
The best of friends! -Too foon 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 felected never-jarring state,
Where God himself their only monarch reigns,
Partake the joy; yet, fuch the sense that still
Remains of earthly woes, for us below,
And for our lofs they drop a pitying tear.
But cease, presumptuous Muse, nor vainly strive
To quit this cloudy fphere that binds thee down:
"Tis not for mortal hand to trace these scenes,
Scenes, that our grofs ideas grovelling caft
Behind, and ftrike our boldeft language dumb.
Forgive, immortal fhade! if aught from earth, From duft low-warbled, to those groves can rife, Where flows celeftial harmony, forgive This fond fuperfluous verfe. With deep-felt voice, On every heart imprefs'd, thy deeds themselves Atteft thy praise. Thy praise the widow's fighs, And orphan's tears embalm. The good, the bad, The fons of juftice and the fons of strife, All who or freedom or who interest prize, A deep-divided nation's parties all, Confpire to fwell thy fpotlefs praife to heaven.
Glad heaven receives it, and feraphic lyres
With fongs of triumph thy arrival hail.
How vain this tribute then! this lowly lay!
Yet nought is vain which gratitude inspires
The Mufe, befides, her duty thus approves
To virtue, to her country, to mankind,
To ruling Nature, that, in glorious charge,
As to her priestefs, gives it her, to hymn
Whatever good and excellent fhe forms.
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