By what bold lines shall we his grief express, Or by what soothing numbers make it less? 'Tis not, I know, the chiming of a song, Nor all the powers that to the Muse belong, Words aptly cull'd and meanings well express'd, Can calm the sorrows of a wounded breast; 160 But Virtue, soother of the fiercest pains, Shall heal that bosom, Rutland, where she reigns. Yet hard the task to heal the bleeding heart, To bid the still-recurring thoughts depart, Tame the fierce grief and stem the rising sigh, And curb rebellious passion with reply; Calmly to dwell on all that pleased before, And yet to know that all shall please no more-- Oh! glorious labour of the soul, to save Her captive powers, and bravely mourn the brave. 170 To such these thoughts will lasting comfort give-- Life is not measured by the time we live: 'Tis not an even course of threescore years, A life of narrow views and paltry fears, Gray hairs and wrinkles and the cares they bring, That take from death the terrors or the sting; But 'tis the gen'rous spirit, mounting high Above the world, that native of the sky; The noble spirit, that, in dangers brave, Calmly looks on, or looks beyond the grave:-- 180 Such Manners was, so he resign'd his breath, If in a glorious, then a timely death. Cease then that grief, and let those tears subside; If Passion rule us, be that passion pride; If Reason, Reason bids us strive to raise Our fallen hearts, and be like him we praise; Or, if Affection still the soul subdue, } Bring all his virtues, all his worth in view, } And let Affection find its comfort too: } For how can Grief so deeply wound the heart, 190 When Admiration claims so large a part? Grief is a foe; expel him, then, thy soul; Let nobler thoughts the nearer views control! Oh! make the age to come thy better care; See other Rutlands, other Granbys there! And, as thy thoughts through streaming ages glide, See other heroes die as Manners died: And, from their fate, thy race shall nobler grow, As trees shoot upwards that are pruned below; Or as old Thames, borne down with decent pride, 200 Sees his young streams run warbling at his side; Though some, by art cut off, no longer run, And some are lost beneath the summer's sun-- Yet the pure stream moves on, and, as it moves, Its power increases and its use improves; While plenty round its spacious waves bestow, Still it flows on, and shall for ever flow. NOTES TO THE VILLAGE. [15] Note 1, page 125, lines 198 and 199. _And, when his age attempts its task in vain, With ruthless taunts, of lazy poor complain._