LINES TO THE MEMORY OF THE LATE RIGHT HON. GEORGE CANNING.
Why does Britannia bend with pensive mien,
And throbbing bosom o'er that sable bier,
To which yon melancholy group is seen
In mute affliction slowly drawing near,
Whilst weeping genius, pointing to the sky,
In silent anguish heaves a plaintive sigh?
She seems to take a lingering last farewell,
As down her cheek the pearly teardrops flow,
Of some lamented spirit she lov'd well,
By Fate's inexorable shaft laid low;
And thus half broken-hearted to complain
"When shall we look upon thy like again!"
Poor drooping maid—she mourns the doom of one,
Whom at a time like this she ill can spare,—
Her talented and patriotic son,
Whom art could not deceive, nor vice ensnare,
To truth and sacred liberty allied,
His country's hope, her honour and her pride!
Yes—he is gone, whose energetic mind
Upheld the pillars of a mighty state;
Whose wisdom, worth, and eloquence, combin'd,
Earn'd the just tribute of the good and great,
Ensur'd a deathless wreath for coming days—
The poor man's blessing, and the rich one's praise!
Relentless Death!—could no one else suffice?
No less invaluable prize be found?
But must he fall a noble sacrifice
And early victim to thy fatal wound!
Thou stern and merciless destroyer, say,
Why didst thou blight his brief but glorious day?
It is not Albion only who deplores.—
All sympathising Europe wails his doom;
And bright-eyed Freedom hastes from Western shores
To drop a grateful tear upon his tomb;
And fondly hovering round his slumbering shade
Guards the lorn spot where her best friend is laid.
Now, stay my muse—for worthier hands than thine
Will twine the laurel round his hallow'd bust;
And raise in happier and more polish'd line
A splendid trophy to his sacred dust;
When thy untaught and unpretending lay
Shall be forgotten and have pass'd away.
Yet, ere thy chords are mute, oh, once again
My trembling lyre let me touch thy string!
And in a humble, but a heartfelt strain
Of him, the much-lov'd child of Genius sing;
And place this simple, unaffected verse,
With moisten'd eye upon his plumed hearse:—
"If all that virtue, all that fame holds dear,
Deserve a tribute—stop and pay it here!"