On the Death of the Right Hounourable —

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’.