'd his dying hour,
Pity her dewy wings before him spread,
For noble spirits "war not with the dead;"
His friends in tears, a last sad requiem gave,
And all his errors slumber'd in the grave.
He died an Atlas, bending 'neath the weight,
Of cares oppressing our unhappy state;
But lo! another Hercules appear'd,
Who for a time, the ruined fabric rear'd;
He too is dead! who still our England propp'd,
With him our fast reviving hopes have dropp'd;
Not one great people only raise his urn,
All Europe's far extended regions mourn.
"These feelings wide, let Sense and Truth unclue,
"And give the palm where Justice points it due;"
But let not canker'd calumny assail,
And round our statesman wind her gloomy veil.
Fox! o'er whose corse a mourning world must weep,
Whose dear remains in honoured marble sleep;
For whom at last, even hostile nations groan,
And friends and foes alike his talents own;
Fox! shall in Britain's future annals shine,
Nor e'en to _Pitt_, the patriot's _palm_ resign;
Which Envy, wearing Candour's sacred mask,
For PITT, and PITT alone, would dare to ask.

* * * * *

TO A LADY, WHO PRESENTED THE AUTHOR A LOCK OF HAIR, BRAIDED WITH HIS
OWN, AND APPOINTED A NIGHT IN DECEMBER, TO MEET HIM IN THE GARDEN.

These locks which fondly thus entwine,
In firmer chains our hearts confine;
Than all th' unmeaning protestations,
Which swell with nonsense, love orations.
Our love is fix'd, I think we've prov'd it,
Nor time, nor place, nor art, have mov'd it;
Then wherefore should we sigh, and whine,
With groundless jealousy repine.
With silly whims, and fancies frantic,
Merely to make our love romantic.
Why should you weep like _Lydia Languish_,
And fret with self-created anguish.
Or doom the lover you have chosen,
On winter nights, to sigh half frozen:
In leafless shades, to sue for pardon,
Only because the scene's a garden.
For gardens seem by one consent
(Since SHAKESPEARE set the precedent;)
(Since Juliet first declar'd her passion)
To form the place of assignation.
Oh! would some modern muse inspire,
And seat her by a _sea-coal_ fire,
Or had the bard at Christmas written,
And laid the scene of love in Britain;
He surely in commiseration,
Had chang'd the place of declaration.
In Italy I've no objection,
Warm nights are proper for reflection;
But here, our climate is s