Born to enjoy whate’er delights Mankind, And yet to all you feel or fear resign’d; 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 Heav’n, these humble lines forgive, That sing of Thee[6], and thus aspire to live. As the tall Oak, whose vigorous branches form An ample shade and brave the wildest storm, 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; When Honour lov’d 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;-- 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 untry’d 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!” 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; 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 exprest, Can calm the sorrows of a wounded breast; 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 pleas’d before, And yet to know that all shall please no more;--