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AN EPITAPH ON PRINCE SUWARROW.

HE, whose mean soul pollutes the name of Paul,
With France conspiring, dooms great Suwarrow's fall;
Just when the fervour of his dauntless mind
Aspired completely to avenge mankind.
If martial glory, stung with keen distress,
Her drooping laurels views, and hints redress;
If heaven-born genius bids the man be free;
Away, with magick speed his honours flee;
Despair, with iron hand precludes relief;
He fought unconquered; but he dies with grief:
No friend repeats fair fame's harmonious breath;
No friend consoles him in the hour of death.

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If despotism excites not all thy hate,
Indignant reader, think on Suwarrow's fate:
With servile adulation art thou pained?
Oh! think how Alfred; think how Virtue reigned!
Lesbury, June 20th, 1800.