His own low pleasures and degenerate mind: And each in all the kindred vices trace Of a poor, blind, bewilder'd, erring race; Who, a short time in varied fortune past, Die, and are equal in the dust at last. 100 And you, ye poor, who still lament your fate, Forbear to envy those you call the great; And know, amid those blessings they possess, They are, like you, the victims of distress; While sloth with many a pang torments her slave, Fear waits on guilt, and danger shakes the brave. Oh! if in life one noble chief appears, Great in his name, while blooming in his years; Born to enjoy whate'er delights mankind, And yet to all you feel or fear resign'd; 110 Who gave up joys and hopes, to you unknown, For pains and dangers greater than your own: If such there be, then let your murmurs cease, Think, think of him, and take your lot in peace. And such there was:--Oh! grief, that checks our pride! Weeping we say, there was--for Manners died: Beloved of Heaven, these humble lines forgive, That sing of Thee[17], and thus aspire to live. As the tall oak, whose vigorous branches form An ample shade and brave the wildest storm, 120 High o'er the subject wood is seen to grow, The guard and glory of the trees below; Till on its head the fiery bolt descends, And o'er the plain the shatter'd trunk extends; Yet then it lies, all wond'rous as before, And still the glory, though the guard no more: So THOU, when every virtue, every grace, Rose in thy soul, or shone within thy face; When, though the son of Granby, thou wert known Less by thy father's glory than thy own; 130 When Honour loved and gave thee every charm, Fire to thy eye and vigour to thy arm; Then from our lofty hopes and longing eyes, Fate and thy virtues call'd thee to the skies; Yet still we wonder at thy tow'ring fame, And, losing thee, still dwell upon thy name. Oh! ever honour'd, ever valued! say, What verse can praise thee, or what work repay? Yet verse (in all we can) thy worth repays, Nor trusts the tardy zeal of future days;-- 140 Honours for thee thy country shall prepare, Thee in their hearts, the good, the brave shall bear; To deeds like thine shall noblest chiefs aspire, The Muse shall mourn thee, and the world admire. In future times, when, smit with Glory's charms, The untried youth first quits a father's arms;-- "Oh! be like him," the weeping sire shall say; "Like Manners walk, who walk'd in Honour's way; In danger foremost, yet in death sedate, Oh! be like him in all things, but his fate!" 150 If for that fate such public tears be shed, That Victory seems to die now THOU art dead; How shall a friend his nearer hope resign, That friend a brother, and whose soul was thine?