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By foreign hands thy humble grave adorn’d,
So peaceful rests, without a stone, a name, That once had beauty, titles, wealth, and fame. How lov’d, how honor’d once, avails thee not, To whom related, or by whom begot: A heap of dust alone remains of thee; 'Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be
Poets themselves must fall, like those they sung Deaf the prais'd ear, and mute the tuneful tongue. Ev’n he, whose soul now melts in mournful lays, Shall shortly want the gen’rous tear he pays; Then from his closing eyes thy form shall part, And the last pang shall tear thee from his heart
Life's idle business at one gasp be o'er,
Hark! they whisper; angels say,
The world recedes; it disappears!
SEE the wild Waste of all-devouring years! How Rome her own sad sepulchre appears, With nodding arches, broken temples spread The very tombs now vanish’d like their dead! Imperial wonders rais'd on Nations spoil'd, 5 Where mix’d with Slaves the groaning Martyr toil'd: Huge Theatres, that now unpeopled Woods, Now drain’d a distant country of her Floods: Fanes, which admiring Gods with pride survey, Statues of Men, scarce less alive than they ! 10 Some felt the silent stroke of mould'ring age, Some hostile fury, some religious rage. Barbarian blindness, Christian zeal conspire, And Papal piety, and Gothic fire. Perhaps, by its own ruins sav'd from flame, 15 Some bury'd marble half preserves a name: That Name the Learn'd with fierce disputes pursue, And give to Titus old Vespasian's due.
Ambition sigh'd; she found it vain to trust The faithless Column and the crumbling Bust: 20 Huge moles, whose shadow stretch'd from shore to shote, Their ruins perish'd, and their place no more
Convinc'd, she now contracts her vast design,
Oh when shall Britain, concious of her claim, Stand emulous of Greek and Roman fame * In living medals see her wars enroll’d, 55 And vanquish’d realms supply recording gold Here, rising bold, the Patriot's honest face; There Warriors frowning in historic brass: Then future ages with delight shall see How Plato's, Bacon's, Newton's looks agree; 60. Or in fair series laurell’d Bards be shown, A Virgil there, and here an Addison. Then shall thy Chaggs (and let me call him mine) On the cast ore, another Pollio, shine; With aspect open shall erect his head, 65 And round the orb in lasting notes be read,
“statesman, yet friend to Truth of soul sincere,
While Celia's Tears make sorrow bright,
The Sun, next those the fairest light, .