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XX. THE DEATH OF CANNING.
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90

XX. THE DEATH OF CANNING.


91

VIII. AUGUST MDCCCXXVII.
Ay, mourn to-day! but mourn for those
Whose rights his arm defended;
Whose foes were his and Freedom's foes
Where'er the names were blended;
For the serf, whose rest from toil and pain
His mercy might have spoken;
For the slave, whose cold and galling chain
His vengeance might have broken;
For Helle's stream, where the Pasha's flag
Still waves o'er the sacred water;
For Erin's huts, where the Orange rag
Is still the sign of slaughter.
Ay, mourn to-day! but not for him;
His name is writ in story,
Ere a single cloud could make more dim
The noon-day of its glory.
Victor in boyhood's early game
And youth's career of gladness,
Victor in manhood's lists of fame
O'er envy, hate, and madness,
What could he hope in other years,
If the longest life had crowned him,
But thus to die, with a nation's tears
And a world's applause around him?

92

The laurel wreath upon his brow
Might have looked less green to-morrow;
But the leaves will bloom for ever now,
They are newly twined by sorrow.
The sighs that are whispered o'er his clay
May weary Heaven's Recorder;
But none are glad, save the Turk's Serai,
And a few of Lord Grey's “Order”!