Of him whose virtues claim eternal fame?
When PITT expired in plenitude of power,
Though ill success obscur'd his dying hour,
Pity her dewy wings before him spread,
For noble spirits "war not with the dead;"
His friends in tears, a last sad requiem gave,
And all his errors slumber'd in the grave.
He died an Atlas, bending 'neath the weight,
Of cares oppressing our unhappy state;
But lo! another Hercules appear'd,