And art a railer and detractor then; They die, again to be described, and now A foe to merit and mankind art thou! Why banish truth? it injures not the dead; It aids not them with flattery to be fed; And, when mankind such perfect pictures view, They copy less, the more they think them true. Let us a mortal as he was behold, And see the dross adhering to the gold; When we the errors of the virtuous state, 130 Then erring men their worth may emulate. View then this picture of a noble mind: Let him be wise, magnanimous, and kind; What was the wisdom? Was it not the frown That keeps all question, all inquiry down? His words were powerful and decisive all; But his slow reasons came for no man's call. "'Tis thus," he cried, no doubt with kind intent, To give results and spare all argument.-- "Let it be spared--all men at least agree 140 Sir Denys Brand had magnanimity: His were no vulgar charities; none saw Him like the merchant to the hut withdraw; He left to meaner minds the simple deed, By which the houseless rest, the hungry feed; His was a public bounty vast and grand; 'Twas not in him to work with viewless hand; He raised the room that towers above the street, A public room where grateful parties meet; He first the life-boat plann'd; to him the place 150 Is deep in debt--'twas he reviv'd the race; To every public act this hearty friend Would give with freedom or with frankness lend; His money built the jail, nor prisoner yet Sits at his ease, but he must feel the debt; To these let candour add his vast display-- } Around his mansion all is grand and gay, } And this is bounty with the name of pay." } I grant the whole, nor from one deed retract, But wish recorded too the private act; 160 All these were great, but still our hearts approve Those simpler tokens of the Christian love; 'Twould give me joy some gracious deed to meet, That has not call'd for glory through the street. Who felt for many, could not always shun, In some soft moment, to be kind to one; And yet they tell us, when Sir Denys died, That not a widow in the Borough sigh'd; Great were his gifts, his mighty heart I own, But why describe what all the world has known? 170 The rest is petty pride, the useless art Of a vain mind to hide a swelling heart. Small was his private room; men found him there By a plain table, on a paltry chair; A wretched floor-cloth, and some prints around, The easy purchase of a single pound: These humble trifles and that study small Make a strong contrast with the servants' hall; There barely comfort, here a proud excess, The pompous seat of pamper'd idleness, 180