University of Virginia Library


298

SONNET XVIII.

To the Right Honorable the Lord Hardwicke, Lord Chancellor.
O thou, to sacred Themis' awful throne,
And the chief seat among the crowned Peers,
The Nation's last resort, in early years
Rais'd by thy high desert; Not this alone,
Nor all the Fame thy Eloquence has won,
Though Britain's counsils with success it steers,
And the rough Scot it's distant thunder fears,
Rank Thee so high above comparison,
As that prime bliss, by which thy heart is warm'd,
Those numerous pledges of thy nuptial bed;
Who back reflect a lustre on their Sire,
Taught by thy lore, by thy example form'd,
With steady steps the ways of glory tread,
And to the palm of virtuous praise aspire.