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Ev'n now the Mufe, the conscious Mufe is here;

From every ruin's formidable shade

Eternal mufic breathes on fancy's ear,

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And wakes to more than form th' illuftrious dead.

Thy CESARS, SCIPIOS, CATOS rife,
The great, the virtuous, and the wife,

In folemn ftate advance!

They fix the philofophic eye,
Or trail the robe, or lift on high
The light'ning of the lance.

IV.

But chief that humbler happier train,
Who knew thofe virtues to reward
Beyond the reach of chance or pain
Secure, th' hiftorian and the bard.

By them the hero's generous rage
Still warm in youth immortal lives;
And in their adamantine page

Thy glory ftill furvives.

Thro' deep favannahs wild and vaft,
Unheard, unknown thro' ages past,

Beneath the fun's directer beams,

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What copious torrents pour their streams! No fame have they, no fond pretence to mourn, 85 No annals fwell their pride, or grace their storied urn. Whilst thou, with Rome's exalted genius join'd,

Her fpear yet lifted, and her corslet brac'd,

Canft tell the waves, canft tell the paffing wind,

Thy wond'rous tale, and chear the lift'ning

wafte.

Tho' from his caves th' unfeeling North
Pour'd all his legion'd tempefts forth,

Yet ftill thy laurels bloom :

One deathless glory ftill remains,

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Thy ftream has roll'd thro' Latian plains, 95
Has wash'd the walls of Rome.

ΑΝ ODE

ON THE

DEATH OF MR. PELHAM.

BY DAVID GARRICK, ESQ. *

An honeft man's the nobleft work of God! POPE.

LET others hail the rifing fun,

I bow to that whofe courfe is run,

Which fets in endless night;

Whofe rays benignant blefs'd this isle,
Made peaceful Nature round us fmile,
With calm, but chearful light.

No bounty past provokes my praife,
No future prospects prompt my lays,
From real grief they flow;

I catch th' alarm from Britain's fears,
My forrows fall with Britain's tears,
And join a nation's woe.

See

as you pass the crowded street, Defpondence clouds each face you meet,

All their loft friend deplore: You read in every pensive eye, You hear in ev'ry broken figh,

That Pelham is no more.

* Born 1716; dyed 1779.

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If thus each Briton be alarm'd,

Whom but his diftant influence warm'd,

What grief their breasts must rend, Who in his private virtues bless'd,

By Nature's dearest tyes poffefs'd

The Hufband, Father, Friend.

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What! mute ye bards?-no mournful verse, 25 No chaplets to adorn his hearse,

To crown the good and just ?

Your flowers in warmer regions bloom,
You feek no penfions from the tomb,

No laurels from the duft.

When pow'r departed with his breath,
The fons of Flatt'ry fled from death:

Such infects fwarm at noon.

Not for herself my Mufe is griev'd,
She never afk'd, nor e'er receiv'd,

One minifterial boon.

Hath fome peculiar ftrange offence
Against us arm'd Omnipotence,

To check the nation's pride!
Behold th' appointed punishment!
At length the vengeful bolt is fent,
when Pelham dy'd!

It fell

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Uncheck'd by fhame, unaw'd by dread,
When Vice triumphant rears her head,

Vengeance can fleep no more;

The evil angel ftalks at large,

The good fubmits, refigns his charge,

And quits th' unhallow'd fhore.

The fame fad morn* to church and state,

(So for our fins 'twas fix'd by fate)

A double froke was giv'n;

Black as the whirlwinds of the north,

St. J-n's fell Genius iffu'd forth,
And Pelham fled to heav'n!

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By angels watch'd in Eden's bow'rs,

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Our parents pafs'd their peaceful hours,

But on the day which usher'd in

Nor guilt nor pain they knew ;

The hell-born train of mortal fin,

The heav'nly guards withdrew.

Look down, much honour'd fhade, below!
Still let thy pity aid our woe;

Stretch out thy healing hand;

Resume those feelings, which on earth

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Proclaim'd thy patriot love and worth,

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And fav'd a finking land.

*The 6th of March, 1754, was remarkable for the publication of the works of a late lord, and the death of Mr.

Pelham.

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