Brood o'er his afhes, and illuftrious duft,
And footh with care the venerable ghost.
To guard the nobler relicks, leave a while
The kind protection of thy favourite ifle:
Around his filent tomb, thy ftation keep,
And, with thy fifter-angel, learn to weep.
Ye fons of Albion, o'er your patriot mourn,
And cool with ftreams of tears his facred urn.
His wondrous virtues, ftretch'd to diftant fhores,
Demand all Europe's tears, as well as yours.
Nature can't bring in every period forth,
A finish'd hero, of exalted worth,
Whofe godlike genius, towering and fublime,
Muft, long lie ripening in the womb of time:
Before a Stanhope enters on the ftage,
The birth of years, and labour of an age.
In field, and council, born the palm to flare,
His voice a fenate, as his fword a war:
And each illuftrious action of his life,
Confpire to form the patriot, and the chief:
On either fide, unite their blended rays,
And kindly mingle in a friendly blaze.
Stand out, and witness this, unhappy Spain,
Lift up to view the mountains of thy flain:
Tell how thy heroes yielded to their fear,
When Stanhope rouz'd the thunder of the war:
With what fierce tumults of fevere delight
Th' impetuous hero plung❜d into the fight,
How he the dreadful front of death defac'd,
Pour'd on the foe, and laid the battle wafte.
Did not his arm the ranks of war deform,
And point the hovering tumult where to storm?
Did not his fword through legions cleave his way,
Break their dark squadrons, and let in the day?
Did not he lead the terrible attack,
Push conqueft on, and bring her bleeding back?
Throw wide the scenes of horror and defpair,
The tide of conflict, and the stream of war?
Bid yellow Tagus, who in triumph roll'd,
Till then his turbid tides of foaming gold,
Boaft his rich channels to the world no more,
Since all his glittering ftreams, and liquid ore,
Lie undiftinguish'd in a flood of gore.
Eid his charg'd waves, and loaded billows sweep,
Thy flaughter'd thousands to the frighted deep.
Confefs, fair Albion, how the liftening throng
Dwelt on the moving accents of his tongue.
In the fage council seat him, and confess
Thy arm in war, thy oracle in peace :
How here triumphant too, his nervous sense
Bore off the palm of manly eloquence:
The healing balm to Albion's wounds apply'd,
And charm'd united factions to his fide:
Fix'd on his fovereign's head the nodding crown,
And prop'd the tottering bafis of the throne,
Supported bravely all the nation's weight,
And ftood the public Atlas of the state.
Sound the loud trumpet, let the folemn knell
Bid with due horror his great foul farewel.
martial inftrument with care,
every
At once wake all the harmony of war.
Let each fad hero in proceffion go,
And swell the vaft folemnity of woe.
Neglect the yew, the mournful cypress leave,
And with fresh laurels ftrew the warrior's grave.
There they shall rife, in honour of his name,
Grow green with victory, and bloom with fame.
Lo! from his azure throne, old father Thames
Sighs through his floods, and groans from all his ftreams:
O'er his full urn he droops his reverend head,
And finks down deeper in his oozy bed,
As the fad pomp proceeds along his fides,
O'ercharg'd with forrow, pant his heaving tides.
Low in his humid palace laid to mourn,
With ftreams of tears, the God fupplies his urn.
Within his channels he forgets to flow,
And pours o'er all his bounds the deluge of his woe.
But fee, my Mufe, if yet thy ravish'd fight
Can bear that blaze, that rushing stream of light;
Where the great hero's difencumber'd soul,
Springs from the earth, to reach her native pole.
Boldly the quits th' abandon'd cask of clay,
Freed from her chains, and towers th' æthereal way:
Soars o'er th' eternal funds of hail and fnow,
And leaves heaven's ftormy magazines below.
Thence through the vast profound of heaven she flies,
And measures all the concave of the skies:
Sees where the planetary worlds advance,
Orb above orb, and lead the starry dance.
Nor refts fhe there, but, with a bolder flight,
Explores the undiscover'd realms of light.
Where the fix'd orbs, to deck the spangled pole,
In state around their gaudy axles roll.
Thence his aspiring courfe in triumph fteers,
Beyond the golden circles of the spheres ;
Into the heaven of heavens, the feat divine,
Where nature never drew her mighty line.
A region that excludes all time and place,
And huts creation from th' unbounded space:
Where the full tides of light in oceans flow,
And fee the fun ten thoufand worlds below.
So far from our inferior orbs disjoin'd,
The tir'd imagination pants behind.
Then ceafe thy painful flight, nor venture more,
Where never Mufe has ftretch'd her wing before.
Thy pinions tempt immortal heights in vain,
That throw thee fluttering back to earth again.
On earth a while, bleft fhade, thy thoughts employ, And steal one moment from eternal joy.
While there, in heaven, immortal fongs infpire
Thy golden ftrings, and tremble on the lyre,
Which raife to nobler ftrains th' angelic choir.
Look down with pity on a mortal's lays,
Who ftrives, in vain, to reach thy boundless praife:
Who with low verfe profanes thy facred name,
Loft in the fpreading circle of thy fame.
Thy fame, which, like thyfelf, is mounted high,
Wide as thy heaven, and lofty as thy fky.
And thou, his pious confort, here below,
Lavish of grief, and prodigal of woe;
Oh! choak thy griefs, thy rifing fighs fupprefs,
Nor let thy forrows violate his peace.
This rage of anguish, that difdains relief,
Dims his bright joys, with fome allay of grief.
Look on his dearest pledge, he left behind,
And fee how Nature, bountiful and kind,
Stamps the paternal image on his mind.
Oh! may th' hereditary virtues run
In fair fucceffion, to adorn the fon;
The last best hopes of Albion's realms to grace,
And form the hero worthy of his race :
Some means at last by Britain may be found,
To dry her tears, and close her bleeding wound.
And if the Mufe through future times can see,
Fair youth, thy father fhall revive in thee:
Thou shalt the wondering nation's hopes engage,
To rife the Stanhope of the future age.
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