On the Death of the Right Hon. ***

Ye muses, pour the pitying tear
For Pollio snatch'd away:
For had he liv'd another year!
--He had not dy'd to-day.

O, were he born to bless mankind,
In virtuous times of yore,
Heroes themselves had fallen behind!
--Whene'er he went before.

How sad the groves and plains appear,
And sympathetic sheep:
Even pitying hills would drop a tear!
--If hills could learn to weep.

His bounty in exalted strain
Each bard might well display:
Since none implor'd relief in vain!
--That went reliev'd away.

And hark! I hear the tuneful throng;
His obsequies forbid.
He still shall live, shall live as long
--As ever dead man did.
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