 | Poems |  |
109
ON A BUST OF FOX.
In this cold Bust, a faint attempt we see,
A vain attempt, great Fox, to picture thee.
For say, can bronze, or marble e'er impart
That magic charm, warm-breathing from the heart?
That fire, which darting from th' expressive eye,
Wings with redoubled force the keen reply?
Or, when thy eloquence, with milder flow,
In Freedom's cause, bids wondering senates glow?
Or, when obeying friendship's sacred call,
Thou mourn'st illustrious Russell's early fall?
A vain attempt, great Fox, to picture thee.
For say, can bronze, or marble e'er impart
That magic charm, warm-breathing from the heart?
That fire, which darting from th' expressive eye,
Wings with redoubled force the keen reply?
Or, when thy eloquence, with milder flow,
In Freedom's cause, bids wondering senates glow?
Or, when obeying friendship's sacred call,
Thou mourn'st illustrious Russell's early fall?
110
In those blest moments, when bright genius pours
At feeling's shrine his tributary stores,
Vainly the imitative arts aspire,
To give thy varying features all their fire;
Yet, though in vain the sculptor seek to trace,
With venturous hand thy soul-illumin'd face,
Thy fame a nobler monument shall prove,
Fix'd on the firmest base—a nation's love:
To distant ages shall thy name descend,
And grateful Britons hail Britannia's friend.
At feeling's shrine his tributary stores,
Vainly the imitative arts aspire,
To give thy varying features all their fire;
Yet, though in vain the sculptor seek to trace,
With venturous hand thy soul-illumin'd face,
Thy fame a nobler monument shall prove,
Fix'd on the firmest base—a nation's love:
To distant ages shall thy name descend,
And grateful Britons hail Britannia's friend.
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