Whilst o'er thy grave, who had'st the muse of fire,
The bard must, envious full of thought, recline;
Howe'er his eager wishes may aspire,
To have endowments varied, great as thine,

One firm resolve, his beating breast shall form,
Ev'n if the sacred Nine should liberal be;
Ne'er to engage in party's horrid storm,
Tho' even, C HURCHILL , he might rival thee.

But solemn vow, that independence dear,
And candour only, thro' his page should run;
Renouncing all the grand to be sincere,
And shunning fame, if he must virtue shun.
So conscious rectitude, his life shall know,
His breast alone with truth and freedom glow.