A poem on the death of the late Earl Stanhope Humbly Inscrib'd to the Countess of Stanhope. By Mr. Pitt |
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 | A poem on the death of the late Earl Stanhope |  |
[Now from thy Riot of Destruction breathe]
At length, Grim Fate, thy dreadful Triumphs cease,
Lock up the Tomb, and seal the Grave in Peace.
Lock up the Tomb, and seal the Grave in Peace.
1
Now from thy Riot of Destruction breathe,
Call in thy raging Plagues, thou Tyrant Death:
Too mean's the Conquest which thy Arms bestow,
Too mean to sweep a Nation at a Blow.
No, thy unbounded Triumphs higher run,
And seem to strike at all Mankind in One;
Since Stanhope is thy Prey, the Great, the Brave,
A nobler Prey was never paid the Grave.
We seem to feel from this thy daring Crime,
A Blank in Nature, and a Pause in Time.
He stood so high in Reason's tow'ring Sphere,
As high as Man unglorify'd cou'd bear.
In Arms, and Eloquence, like Cæsar, shone
So bright, that each Minerva was his own.
How could so vast a Fund of Learning lie
Shut up in such a short Mortality?
One World of Science nobly travell'd o'er,
Like Philip's glorious Son, he wept for more.
Call in thy raging Plagues, thou Tyrant Death:
Too mean's the Conquest which thy Arms bestow,
Too mean to sweep a Nation at a Blow.
2
And seem to strike at all Mankind in One;
Since Stanhope is thy Prey, the Great, the Brave,
A nobler Prey was never paid the Grave.
We seem to feel from this thy daring Crime,
A Blank in Nature, and a Pause in Time.
He stood so high in Reason's tow'ring Sphere,
As high as Man unglorify'd cou'd bear.
In Arms, and Eloquence, like Cæsar, shone
So bright, that each Minerva was his own.
How could so vast a Fund of Learning lie
Shut up in such a short Mortality?
3
Like Philip's glorious Son, he wept for more.
And now, resign'd to Tears, th'Angelick Choirs,
With drooping Heads unstring their Golden Lyres,
Wrapt in a Cloud of Grief, they sigh to view
Their sacred Image laid by Death so low:
And deep in Anguish sunk, on Stanhope's Fate,
Begin to doubt their own Immortal State.
With drooping Heads unstring their Golden Lyres,
Wrapt in a Cloud of Grief, they sigh to view
Their sacred Image laid by Death so low:
And deep in Anguish sunk, on Stanhope's Fate,
Begin to doubt their own Immortal State.
But hold, my Muse, thy mournful Transport errs,
Hold here, and listen to Lucinda's Tears.
While thy vain Sorrows eccho to his Tomb,
Behold a Sight that strikes all Sorrow dumb:
Behold the Partner of his Cares and Life,
Bright in her Tears, and beautiful in Grief.
Shall then in vain those Streams of Sorrow flow,
Drest up in all the Elegance of Woe?
And shall the kind officious Muse forbear
To answer Sigh for Sigh, and tell out Tear for Tear?
Oh! no; at such a melancholy Scene,
The Poet ecchoes back her Woes again.
Each weeping Muse should minister Relief,
From all the moving Eloquence of Grief.
Each like a Niobe, his Fate bemoan,
Melt into Tears, or harden into Stone.
From dark Obscurity his Virtues save,
And, like pale Spectres, hover round his Grave.
With Them the Marble should due Measures keep,
Relent at ev'ry Sigh, at ev'ry Accent weep.
Hold here, and listen to Lucinda's Tears.
4
Behold a Sight that strikes all Sorrow dumb:
Behold the Partner of his Cares and Life,
Bright in her Tears, and beautiful in Grief.
Shall then in vain those Streams of Sorrow flow,
Drest up in all the Elegance of Woe?
And shall the kind officious Muse forbear
To answer Sigh for Sigh, and tell out Tear for Tear?
Oh! no; at such a melancholy Scene,
The Poet ecchoes back her Woes again.
Each weeping Muse should minister Relief,
From all the moving Eloquence of Grief.
5
Melt into Tears, or harden into Stone.
From dark Obscurity his Virtues save,
And, like pale Spectres, hover round his Grave.
With Them the Marble should due Measures keep,
Relent at ev'ry Sigh, at ev'ry Accent weep.
Britannia mourn thy Hero, nor refuse
To vent thy Sighs and Sorrows with the Muse:
Oh! let thy rising Groans load ev'ry Wind,
Nor let one sluggish Accent lag behind.
Thy heavy Fate with Justice to deplore,
Convey a Gale of Sighs from Shore to Shore.
And thou, her Guardian Angel, widely spread
Thy Golden Wings, and shield the mighty Dead.
Brood o'er his Ashes, and illustrious Dust,
And sooth with Care the venerable Ghost.
To guard the noble Relicks, leave a while
The kind Protection of thy fav'rite Isle:
Around his silent Tomb, thy Station keep,
And with thy Sister-Angel, learn to weep.
To vent thy Sighs and Sorrows with the Muse:
Oh! let thy rising Groans load ev'ry Wind,
Nor let one sluggish Accent lag behind.
6
Convey a Gale of Sighs from Shore to Shore.
And thou, her Guardian Angel, widely spread
Thy Golden Wings, and shield the mighty Dead.
Brood o'er his Ashes, and illustrious Dust,
And sooth with Care the venerable Ghost.
To guard the noble Relicks, leave a while
The kind Protection of thy fav'rite Isle:
Around his silent Tomb, thy Station keep,
And with thy Sister-Angel, learn to weep.
7
Ye Sons of Albion, o'er your Patriot mourn,
And cool with Streams of Tears his sacred Urn.
His wondrous Virtues, stretch'd to distant Shores,
Demand all Europe's Tears, as well as yours.
Nature can't bring in ev'ry Period forth,
A finish'd Hero, of exalted Worth,
Whose Godlike Genius, tow'ring and sublime,
Must long lie rip'ning in the Womb of Time:
Before a Stanhope enters on the Stage,
The Birth of Years, and Labour of an Age.
In Field, and Council, born the Palm to share,
His Voice a Senate, as his Sword a War:
And each illustrious Action of his Life,
Conspire to form the Patriot, and the Chief:
On either Side, unite their blended Rays,
And kindly mingle in a friendly Blaze.
And cool with Streams of Tears his sacred Urn.
His wondrous Virtues, stretch'd to distant Shores,
Demand all Europe's Tears, as well as yours.
Nature can't bring in ev'ry Period forth,
A finish'd Hero, of exalted Worth,
Whose Godlike Genius, tow'ring and sublime,
Must long lie rip'ning in the Womb of Time:
Before a Stanhope enters on the Stage,
The Birth of Years, and Labour of an Age.
8
His Voice a Senate, as his Sword a War:
And each illustrious Action of his Life,
Conspire to form the Patriot, and the Chief:
On either Side, unite their blended Rays,
And kindly mingle in a friendly Blaze.
Stand out, and witness this, unhappy Spain,
Lift up to View the Mountains of thy Slain:
Tell how thy Heroes yielded to their Fear,
When Stanhope rouz'd the Thunder of the War:
With what fierce Tumults of severe Delight,
Th'impetuous Hero plung'd into the Fight.
How He the dreadful Front of Death defac'd,
Pour'd on the Foe, and laid the Battle waste.
Did not his Arm the Ranks of War deform,
And point the hov'ring Tumult where to storm?
Did not his Sword thro' Legions cleave his Way,
Break their dark Squadrons, and let in the Day?
Did not he lead the terrible Attack,
Push Conquest on, and bring her bleeding back?
Throw wide the Scenes of Horror and Despair,
The Tide of Conflict, and the Stream of War?
Bid yellow Tagus, who in Triumph roll'd,
Till then his turbid Tides of foaming Gold,
Boast his rich Channels to the World no more,
Since all his glitt'ring Streams, and liquid Ore,
Lie undistinguish'd in a Flood of Gore.
Bid his charg'd Waves, and loaded Billows sweep,
Thy slaughter'd Thousands to the frighted Deep.
Lift up to View the Mountains of thy Slain:
Tell how thy Heroes yielded to their Fear,
When Stanhope rouz'd the Thunder of the War:
9
Th'impetuous Hero plung'd into the Fight.
How He the dreadful Front of Death defac'd,
Pour'd on the Foe, and laid the Battle waste.
Did not his Arm the Ranks of War deform,
And point the hov'ring Tumult where to storm?
Did not his Sword thro' Legions cleave his Way,
Break their dark Squadrons, and let in the Day?
Did not he lead the terrible Attack,
Push Conquest on, and bring her bleeding back?
10
The Tide of Conflict, and the Stream of War?
Bid yellow Tagus, who in Triumph roll'd,
Till then his turbid Tides of foaming Gold,
Boast his rich Channels to the World no more,
Since all his glitt'ring Streams, and liquid Ore,
Lie undistinguish'd in a Flood of Gore.
Bid his charg'd Waves, and loaded Billows sweep,
Thy slaughter'd Thousands to the frighted Deep.
11
Confess, fair Albion, how the list'ning Throng,
Dwelt on the moving Accents of his Tongue.
In the sage Council seat Him, and confess
Thy Arm in War, thy Oracle in Peace:
How here triumphant too, his nervous Sense
Bore off the Palm of Manly Eloquence:
The healing Balm to Albion's Wounds apply'd,
And charm'd united Factions to his Side:
Fix'd on his Sov'reign's Head the nodding Crown,
And prop'd the tott'ring Basis of the Throne,
Supported bravely all the Nation's Weight,
And stood the publick Atlas of the State.
Dwelt on the moving Accents of his Tongue.
In the sage Council seat Him, and confess
Thy Arm in War, thy Oracle in Peace:
How here triumphant too, his nervous Sense
Bore off the Palm of Manly Eloquence:
The healing Balm to Albion's Wounds apply'd,
And charm'd united Factions to his Side:
Fix'd on his Sov'reign's Head the nodding Crown,
And prop'd the tott'ring Basis of the Throne,
12
And stood the publick Atlas of the State.
Sound the loud Trumpet, let the solemn Knell
Bid with due Horror, his great Soul farewel.
Tune ev'ry martial Instrument with Care,
At once wake all the Harmony of War.
Let each sad Hero in Procession go,
And swell the vast Solemnity of Woe.
Neglect the Yeugh, the mournful Cypress leave,
And with fresh Laurels strew the Warrior's Grave.
There they shall rise, in Honour of his Name,
Grow green with Victory, and bloom with Fame.
Bid with due Horror, his great Soul farewel.
Tune ev'ry martial Instrument with Care,
At once wake all the Harmony of War.
Let each sad Hero in Procession go,
And swell the vast Solemnity of Woe.
Neglect the Yeugh, the mournful Cypress leave,
And with fresh Laurels strew the Warrior's Grave.
13
Grow green with Victory, and bloom with Fame.
Lo! from his azure Throne, old Father Thames,
Sighs thro' his Floods, and groans from all his Streams:
O'er his full Urn he droops his rev'rend Head,
And sinks down deeper in his ouzy Bed,
As the sad Pomp proceeds along his Sides,
O'ercharg'd with Sorrow, pant his heaving Tides.
Low in his humid Palace laid to mourn,
With Streams of Tears, the God supplies his Urn.
Within his Channels he forgets to flow,
And pours o'er all his Bounds the Deluge of his Woe.
Sighs thro' his Floods, and groans from all his Streams:
O'er his full Urn he droops his rev'rend Head,
And sinks down deeper in his ouzy Bed,
As the sad Pomp proceeds along his Sides,
O'ercharg'd with Sorrow, pant his heaving Tides.
Low in his humid Palace laid to mourn,
With Streams of Tears, the God supplies his Urn.
14
And pours o'er all his Bounds the Deluge of his Woe.
But see, my Muse, if yet thy ravish'd Sight
Can bear that Blaze, that rushing Stream of Light;
Where the great Hero's disencumber'd Soul,
Springs from the Earth, to reach her native Pole.
Boldly she quits th'abandon'd Cask of Clay,
Freed from her Chains, and tow'rs th'æthereal Way:
Soars o'er th'eternal Funds of Hail and Snow,
And leaves Heav'ns stormy Magazines below.
Thence thro' the vast Profound of Heav'n she flies,
And measures all the Concave of the Skies:
Sees where the Planetary Worlds advance,
Orb above Orb, and lead the starry Dance.
Nor rests she there, but with a bolder Flight,
Explores the undiscover'd Realms of Light.
Where the fix'd Orbs, to deck the spangled Pole,
In State around their gaudy Axles roll.
Thence his aspiring Course, in Triumph, steers,
Beyond the golden Circles of the Spheres;
Into the Heav'n of Heav'ns, the Seat Divine,
Where Nature never drew her mighty Line.
A Region that excludes all Time and Place,
And shuts Creation from th'unbounded Space:
Where the full Tides of Light, in Oceans flow,
And see the Sun ten thousand Worlds below.
So far from our inferior Orbs disjoin'd,
The tir'd Imagination pants behind.
Then cease thy painful Flight, nor venture more,
Where never Muse has stretch'd her Wing before.
Thy Pinions tempt immortal Heights in vain,
That throw thee flutt'ring back to Earth again.
Can bear that Blaze, that rushing Stream of Light;
Where the great Hero's disencumber'd Soul,
Springs from the Earth, to reach her native Pole.
Boldly she quits th'abandon'd Cask of Clay,
Freed from her Chains, and tow'rs th'æthereal Way:
Soars o'er th'eternal Funds of Hail and Snow,
And leaves Heav'ns stormy Magazines below.
15
And measures all the Concave of the Skies:
Sees where the Planetary Worlds advance,
Orb above Orb, and lead the starry Dance.
Nor rests she there, but with a bolder Flight,
Explores the undiscover'd Realms of Light.
Where the fix'd Orbs, to deck the spangled Pole,
In State around their gaudy Axles roll.
Thence his aspiring Course, in Triumph, steers,
Beyond the golden Circles of the Spheres;
Into the Heav'n of Heav'ns, the Seat Divine,
Where Nature never drew her mighty Line.
16
And shuts Creation from th'unbounded Space:
Where the full Tides of Light, in Oceans flow,
And see the Sun ten thousand Worlds below.
So far from our inferior Orbs disjoin'd,
The tir'd Imagination pants behind.
Then cease thy painful Flight, nor venture more,
Where never Muse has stretch'd her Wing before.
Thy Pinions tempt immortal Heights in vain,
That throw thee flutt'ring back to Earth again.
17
On Earth a while, blest Shade, thy Thoughts employ,
And steal one Moment from eternal Joy.
While there, in Heav'n, immortal Songs inspire,
Thy Golden Strings, and tremble on thy Lyre,
Which raise to nobler Strains th'Angelick Choir.
Look down with Pity on a Mortal's Lays,
Who strives, in vain, to reach thy boundless Praise:
Who with low Verse profanes thy sacred Name,
Lost in the spreading Circle of thy Fame.
Thy Fame, which, like thyself, is mounted high,
Wide as thy Heav'n, and lofty as thy Sky.
And steal one Moment from eternal Joy.
While there, in Heav'n, immortal Songs inspire,
Thy Golden Strings, and tremble on thy Lyre,
Which raise to nobler Strains th'Angelick Choir.
Look down with Pity on a Mortal's Lays,
Who strives, in vain, to reach thy boundless Praise:
Who with low Verse profanes thy sacred Name,
Lost in the spreading Circle of thy Fame.
18
Wide as thy Heav'n, and lofty as thy Sky.
And Thou, his pious Consort, here below,
Lavish of Grief, and prodigal of Woe:
Oh! choak thy Griefs, thy rising Sighs suppress,
Nor let thy Sorrows violate his Peace.
This Rage of Anguish, that disdains Relief,
Dims his bright Joys, with some Allay of Grief.
Look on his dearest Pledge, he left behind,
And see how Nature, bountiful and kind,
Stamps the Paternal Image on his Mind.
Oh! may the hereditary Virtues run
In fair Succession, to adorn the Son;
The last best Hopes of Albion's Realms to grace,
And form the Hero worthy of his Race:
Some Means at last by Britain may be found,
To dry her Tears, and close her bleeding Wound.
And if the Muse thro' future Times can see,
Fair Youth, thy Father shall revive in thee:
Thou shalt the wond'ring Nation's Hopes engage,
To rise the Stanhope of the future Age.
Lavish of Grief, and prodigal of Woe:
Oh! choak thy Griefs, thy rising Sighs suppress,
Nor let thy Sorrows violate his Peace.
This Rage of Anguish, that disdains Relief,
Dims his bright Joys, with some Allay of Grief.
Look on his dearest Pledge, he left behind,
And see how Nature, bountiful and kind,
Stamps the Paternal Image on his Mind.
19
In fair Succession, to adorn the Son;
The last best Hopes of Albion's Realms to grace,
And form the Hero worthy of his Race:
Some Means at last by Britain may be found,
To dry her Tears, and close her bleeding Wound.
And if the Muse thro' future Times can see,
Fair Youth, thy Father shall revive in thee:
Thou shalt the wond'ring Nation's Hopes engage,
To rise the Stanhope of the future Age.
FINIS.
| A poem on the death of the late Earl Stanhope | |