The Twenty-fourth Ode of the first Book of Horace imitated and paraphrased,
on the Death of Sir William Windham Bart.
[_]
To be added to the Imitations.
TO The right honourable William Pulteney
Esq.
I
What Bounds, what Moderation, can
Be set to our Desires or Grief,
When we have loss'd so dear a Man,
For whom his Country mourns in Chief?
II
Melpomene, begin the Lay,
The Song of Woe: to thee thy Sire,
The God of Verse who rules the Day,
Gave the melodious Voice and Lyre.
III
Must Sleep eternal close his Eyes,
Eternal Silence chain his Tongue,
So form'd to please, and to surprise,
Whene'er he spoke, both old and young?
IV
O! when shall Modesty, that flys
From the rapacious Statesman's Door,
When Truth, that scorns the mean Disguise
With which the Traytor's cover'd o'er,
V
O! when shall public Faith, that stands
By Justice with a stedfast Mind,
A Stranger to corrupted Hands,
His Equal in the Senate find?
VI
He, Pulteney, to the Grave descends
Lamented by the good no few;
Yet none (for Virtue made ye Friends)
Sheds o'er his Urn more Tears than you.
VII
Pious in vain to Heav'n you may
For his Return prefer the Pray'r;
Your Vows are loss'd, whate'er you say,
And unregarded mix with Air.
VIII
Tho gentle as the morning Dew,
And tho as Hybla's Honey sweet,
Persuasive Language flows from you,
Which can the Pow'r of Gold defeat,
IX
Tho in our Senates all you speak
Commands Attention still as Night,
Tho you can strengthen there the weak,
And from her Seat Corruption fright,
X
Yet )! too feeble's Eloquence
Back to recall, the fleeting Breath:
'Tis gone beyond the Reach of Sense,
Snatch'd by the leaden Hand of Death.
XI
Of Death That is of all the End,
Who wraps us in eternal Shade.
O! sad! but what we can not mend
Must be by Patience lighter made.
