Classic Poem

O thou! to bind whose awful Brow
Triumphant Laurels joy to grow,
To whom the Sons of Science bend,
As to the great inspiring Soul,
That brightens and informs the whole,
The Muses Patron, Judge, and Friend.

Never did Britain's King before,
A Substitute so noble find,
Nor ever yet deputed Pow'r
With such transcendent Lustre shin'd.

For when, to grace Hibernia's Throne
The God-like Chesterfield was giv'n,
How did the joyful People own
Their Monarch's Love! the Care of Heav'n?
On thy exalted Speech their Senates hung,
And blessed the Elocution of thy Tongue!

'Tis Stanhope can alone untie
The Gordian Knot of Policy.
He ev'ry Kingdom's Int'rest knows:
Were to his Care the World consign'd,
Th' Almighty's everlasting Mind
Might there secure his Trust repose.

Thy Genius, for all Stations fit,
The Reins of Empire knows to guide,
Nor less the sacred Realms of Wit
Acknowledge thee their Boast and Pride;
So Phoebus rules the Chariot of the Day,
And charms the Groves with his melodious Lay.

How did of late the Nations fear
Sickness, the Messenger of Fate,
Would take thee to thy native Sphere,
'Midst throned Gods to hold thy State.
We fear'd a Soul, so eminently wise,
Was call'd to grace th' Synod of the Skies.

But soon the Rose-lipp'd Cherub Health,
Commissioned by the Pow'r Divine,
Restor'd Britannia's Dearest Wealth,
The Glory of her patriot Line.
Oh may'st Thou long from better Worlds be spar'd,
And late receive thy Virtues full Reward.

Ev'n I, whom many Griefs oppress,
Enraptur'd with thy flowing Strain,
A while forget my own Distress,
And Anguish ceases to complain;
Such Charms to Heav'n born Eloquence belong,
And such the magic Force of sacred Song.