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And pouring and roaring,
And waving and raving,
And tossing and crossing,
And flowing and growing,
And running and stunning,
And hurrying and skurrying,
And glittering and frittering,
And gathering and feathering,
And dinning and spinning,
And foaming and roaming,
And drooping and hooping,
And working and jerking,
And heaving and cleaving,
And thundering and floundering,
And falling and crawling and sprawling,
And driving and riving and striving,
And sprinkling and twinkling and wrinkling,
And sounding and bounding and rounding,
And bubbling and troubling and doubling,
Dividing and gliding and sliding,
And grumbling and rumbling and tumbling,
And clattering and battering and shattering,
And gleaming and streaming and steaming and beaming,
And rushing and flushing and brushing and gushing,
And flapping and rapping and clapping and slapping,
And curling and whirling and purling and twirling,
Retreating and beating and meeting and sheeting,
Delaying and straying
and playing and spraying, Advancing and prancing and glancing and dancing, Recoiling, turmoiling, and toiling and boiling, And thumping and flumping and bumping and jumping, And dashing and flashing and splashing and clashing; And so never ending, but always descending, Sounds and motions for ever and ever are blending, All at once and all o’er, with a mighty uproar,And this way the water comes down at Lodore.
SWEET Peace, where dost thou dwell ? I humbly crave,
Let me once know.
I sought thee in a secret cave,
And ask'd if Peace were there.
A hollow wind did seem to answer, No;
Go seek elsewhere.
I did; and going did a rainbow note:
Surely, thought I,
This is the lace of Peace's coat:
I will search out the matter.
But while I look’d, the clouds immediately
Did break and scatter.
Then went I to a garden, and did spy
A gallant flower—
The crown imperial. Sure, said I,
Peace at the root must dwell.
But when I digg'd, I saw a worm devour
What show'd so well.
At length I met a rev'rend, good old man:
Whom, when for Peace
I did demand, he thus began :
There was a Prince of old
At Salem dwelt, who lived with good increase
Of flock and fold.
He sweetly lived; yet sweetness did not save
His life from foes.
But after death, out of his grave
There sprang twelve stalks of wheat;
Which many wond'ring at, got some of those
To plant and set.
It prosper'd strangely, and did soon disperse
Through all the earth :
For they that taste it do rehearse
That virtue lies therein ;
A secret virtue, bringing peace and mirth,
By flight of sin.
Take of this grain, which in my garden grows,
Make bread of it: and that repose,
And peace, which ev'rywhere
With so much earnestness you pursue,
Is only there.
To mute and to material things
New life revolving summer brings :
The genial call dead Nature hears,
And in her glory reappears.
But, oh! my country's wintry state,
What second spring shall renovate !
What powerful call shall bid arise
The buried warlike and the wise ?
The mind that thought for Britain's weal,
The hand that grasp'd the victor-steel?
The vernal sun new life bestows,
E’en on the meanest flower that blows;
But vainly, vainly may he shine,
Where glory weeps o'er Nelson's shrine,
And vainly pierce that solemn gloom
That shrouds, ( Pitt, thy hallow'd tomb!
Deep graved in every British heart,
Oh! never let those names depart !
Say to your sons-Lo, here his grave!
Who victor died on Gadite* wave;
To him, as to the burning levin,
Short, bright, resistless course was given;
Where'er his country's foes were found,
Was heard the fated thunder's sound,
Till burst the bolt on yonder shore,
Rolld, blazed, destroy'd, and was no more.
Nor mourn ye less his perish'd worth,
Who bade the conqueror go forth,
And launch'd that thunderbolt of war
On Egypt, Hafnia,t Trafalgar;
Who, born to guide such high emprize,
For Britain's weal was early wise ;
Alas! to whom the Almighty gave,
For Britain's sins, an early grave;
His worth, who, in his mightiest hour,
A bauble held the pride of power,
Spurn’d at the sordid lust of pelf,
And served his Albion for lierself;
Who, when the frantic crowd amain
Strain'd at subjection's bursting rein,
O'er the wild mood full conquest gain’d,
The pride le would not crushi restrain’d,
Show'd their fierce zeal a worthier cause,
And brought the freeman's arm to aid the freeman's laws.
Hadst thou but lived, though stripp'd of power,
A watchman on the lonely tower,
Thy thrilling trump had roused the land,
When fraud and danger were at hand;
By thee, as by the beacon-light,
Our pilots had kept course aright;
As some proud column, though alone,
Thy strength had propp'd the tottering throne.
Now is the stately column broke,
The beacon-light is quenchi'd in smoke,
The trumpet's silver sound is still,
The warder silent on the hill !
Oh! think how to his latest day,
When Death, just hovering, claim'd his prey,
With Palinure's* unalter'd mood,
Firm at his dangerous post he stood;
Each call for needful rest repellid,
With dying hand the rudder held,
Till, in his fall, with fateful sway,
The steerage of the helm gave way;
Then, while on Britain's thousand plains,
One unpolluted church remains,
Whose peaceful bells ne'er sent around
The bloody tocsin's maddening sound;
But still upon the hallow'd day,
Convoke the swains to praise and pray ;
* Palinure, the pilot of Æneas, whom Virgil describes as clinging to the helm even in death.
While faith and civil
peace are dear,
Grace this cold marble with a tear,-
He who preserved them—Pitt, lies here!
Nor yet suppress the generous sigh,
Because his rival slumbers nigh;
Nor be thy requiescat* dumb,
Lest it be said, o'er Fox's tomb, -
For talents mourn, untimely lost,
When best employ'd and wanted most;
Mourn, genius high, and lore profound,
And wit that loved to play, not wound;
And all the reasoning powers divine,
To penetrate, resolve, combine;
Aud feelings keen and fancy's glow,-
They sleep with him who sleeps below;
And, if thou mourn'st they could not save
From error him who owns this grave,
Be every harsher thought suppress’d,
And sacred be the last long rest.
Here, where the end of earthly things,
Lay heroes, patriots, bards, and kings;
Where stiff the hand, and still the tongue,
Of those who fought, and spoke, and sung:
Here, where the fretted aisles prolong
The distant notes of holy song,
As if some angel spoke again,
All peace on earth, good will to men;
If ever from an English heart,
Oh! here let prejudice depart,
And, partial feeling cast aside,
Record, that Fox a Briton died !
When Europe crouch'd to France's yoke,
And Austria bent, and Prussia broke,
And the firm Russian's purpose brave,
Was barter'd by a timorous slave;
E’en then dishonor's peace he spurn’d,
The sullied olive-branch return'd,
Stood for his country's glory fast,
And nail'd her colors to the mast!
Heaven, to reward his firmness, gave
A portion in this honor'd grave;
And ne'er held marble in its trust,
Of two such wondrous men the dust.
Scott. * Requiescat in pace, may he rest in peace!” a common prayer for the dead.