ON THE DUKE OF BRIDGEWATER.
From Shee's "Rhymes on Art."
Shall Egerton[7] depart without a tear?
And press in silent state a plumeless bier?
No, though his tomb no martial glories grace,
No trophies won in wild Ambition's race;
Though no vain pen on History's pompous page
Paint the deep statesman to th' astonish'd age;
Lay open all the labyrinth of his breast—
What plans he form'd—what factions he suppress'd;
What flames of war broke forth as he desir'd—
Cool'd as he calm'd, or kindled as he fir'd;
Yet life's mild Arts their spotless ensigns wave,
And grateful swains strow garlands on his grave.
Though crown'd with all in rank, or wealth that charms,
And lulls th' enfeebled soul in Pleasure's arms,
Behold him, yet in man's meridian hour,
Fly the false glare of pomp, and pride, and pow'r;
Decline the Court's intrigues, the Senate's, strife,
To serve his country in secluded life;
To ope new arteries of public health,
Promote her pride and circulate her wealth;
Call forth a Brindley's genius, and command,
To pierce opposing mountains with his wand,
Through wondering vales, in liquid course to lead
Commercial keels, and navigate the mead;
Bid in bright tracks obedient currents glide,
And, like a river-god, direct the tide.