O Harrison! I muft, I will complain ;
Tears footh the foul's diftrefs, though fhed in vain;
Didft thou return, and blefs thy native shore
With welcome peace, and is my friend no more?-
Thy task was early done, and I must own
Death kind to thee, but ah! to thee alone.
But 'tis in me a vanity to mourn,
The forrows of the great thy tomb adorn;
Strafford and Bolingbroke the lofs perceive,
They grieve, and make thee envy'd in thy grave.
With aking heart, and a foreboding mind,
I night to day in painful journey join'd,
When first inform'd of his approaching fate;
But reach'd the partner of my foul too late :
'Twas paft, his cheek was cold, that tuneful tongue,,
Which Ifis charm'd with its melodious fong,
Now languifh'd, wanted ftrength to speak his pain,
Scarce rais'd a feeble groan, and funk again :
Each art of life, in which he bore a part,
Shot like an arrow through my bleeding heart.
To what ferv'd all his promis'd wealth and power,
But more to load that most unhappy hour?
Yet ftill prevail'd the greatnefs of his mind;
That, not in health, or life itself confin'd,
Felt through his mortal pangs Britannia's peace,
Mounted to joy, and fmil'd in death's embrace.
His fpirit now juft ready to refign,
No longer now his own, no longer mine,
He grafps my hand, his fwimming eye-balls roll,
My hand he grafps, and enters in my soul;