OF THE DEATH OF THE RIGHT HON. ***

YE Muses, pour the pitying tear

For Pollio snatch'd away;

O! had he liv'd another year!—

‘ He had not died to-day’.

O! were he born to bless mankind,

In virtuous times of yore,

Heroes themselves had fallen behind!—

‘ Whene'er he went before’.

How sad the groves and plains appear,

And sympathetic sheep;

Even pitying hills would drop a tear!—

‘ If hills could learn to weep’.

His bounty in exalted strain

Each bard might well display;

Since none implor'd relief in vain!—

‘ That went reliev'd away’.

And hark! I hear the tuneful throng

His obsequies forbid,

He still shall live, shall live as long!—

‘ As ever dead man did’.