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36

ELEGY SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF LORD WILLIAM RUSSEL .

Spirit of Russel! from thy sphere descend,
Tear blank oblivion off my mental sight,
Display the tablet of thy tragic end,
When all thy earthly honours sunk in night!
Lead on the martyrs, who, to England's shame,
For truths they lov'd, for errors they denied,
Groan'd on the rack, panted amid the flame,
And in the grasp of Superstition died!
37

He comes! The spirit wears his wonted smile,
Beams of eternal glory round him play:
See! lightly veil'd, Britannia's pictur'd Isle,
Where sunk in vice her wasted monarch lay.
In that dread picture I behold the throne,
O'er which pale Faction held her serpents high;
Where her red eyes with vivid lightning shone—
Around her still the Furies seem to cry!
The snaky tresses writhe upon the air!
Murder, with ghastly visage, stains her hand:
Wild Superstition stings the soul with fear,
Hurling promiscuous horror o'er the land.
Mad as Cassandra, round the fatal fires
Enthusiastic zealots loudly rave—
What Fury thus the hoary priest inspires,
Who bade him press the guiltless to the grave?
38

Tormenting passion, in Love's sacred name,
Shoots through the sov'reign as he sleepless lies;
His sceptre melts 'mid the contagious flame,
His kingdom trembles, and his glory dies.
Enervated, he sees no danger near—
No more the British navy rules the deep:
In vain Britannia murmurs on his ear;
He breaks the charter he had sworn to keep.
Russel, thou saw'st him trifle with his word;
Sunk in voluptuousness, profuse of blood,
Pledging fair Albion to yon Gallic lord,
Who smiling seems to triumph o'er the flood .
39

I see thee dauntless; see the Britons warm!—
Truth, angel of the soul when undismay'd,
Illumes thy face, th'attentive thought to charm:
To hail thee, Liberty forsakes her shade.
Thy country's wrongs, the hopeless peasant's woe,
Science and knowledge banish'd from the crowd,
Millions for Pleasure's vot'ries known to flow,
Were ills that near Corruption made thee loud.
Corruption murmur'd: sullen Vengeance came,
Shook the dread axe within yon sacred hall;
Condemn'd a Russel long enwreath'd by Fame—
With him condemn'd Britannia's rights to fall.
Believe me, Russel, when thy tale is told
Beside the peasant's hearth, his children weep:
His fire neglected dies; their blood runs cold;
To their low pallets they in silence creep.
40

No clamour of the state, no party broil,
Inflames the pensive wand'rer of the vale:
He with his ox by day pursues his toil,
At night sits list'ning to the tragic tale.
Patiently spelling Hist'ry's length'ning page,
Virtues recorded youthful swains inspire—
They feel as Russel did: more softened Age
Drops the mild tear o'er thy distracted sire.
“I had a son,” the hoary shepherd cries:
“He lives no more!—my labour's nearly done!—”
By Hist'ry taught, he wipes his tearful eyes;
There Bedford's shade is heard—“I had a son!”
Russel, thy tablet holds him: there I see
The venerable statesman sunk in woe;
With eyes uplifted, on his bended knee,
“One life (he cries), one life, my king, bestow!
41

“Monarch, look on through ages! that bright crown
False to its owner mercy bids thee wear!
With Bedford must thou lay thy glories down,
With his thy page shall travel with the year.
“Dread sov'reign, thou hast known a changeful state:
Thy father lov'd me well—Thy father's gone!
For him and thee I bore the cares of state:
Reward me, monarch! only spare my son!
“From York and thee I'll lead him to some wild;
Come, Russel, to my arms! we will not part.
My king restores me my deserving child!
Now age drinks up the current of my heart!”
Hold, injur'd spirit! hide thy father's tears:
They strike my fancy with too deep a dye.
Ah! draw the veil the mournful picture wears,
Spread thy white pinions—seek thy native sky.
42

Invok'd by Poesy, the yielding shade
Forbore to torture my dissolving soul;
Ascending as he flew, the axe display'd—
Too near the throne—I saw the visage roll.
 

This nobleman fell a victim to the intrigues of James duke of York, and was beheaded in the prime of life, July 21, 1683. The Commons of England, and the inviolable statutes of her Constitution, opposed the succession of James; who, after gaining the sovereignty, was said to have given three crowns for a mass. But Charles II. having no heir, resolved to secure the succession to James by sacrificing the lives of his noblest subjects; and openly declared—“Lord Russel shall find I am possessed of that prerogative which, in the case of Lord Stafford, he thought proper to deny me!”—A speech incompatible with that justice, and remote from that grandeur of thought, which subjects so valuable should find in a monarch.

Louis XIV. furnished Charles II. with money to pursue his pleasures, whilst himself pursued his conquests and ambition. Such was the supineness of the English monarch, that his favourite minister Clifford had the audacity to tell him, “It was better to be a viceroy under a great monarch, than a slave to his own subjects.”

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