On the Death of the Right Hon.***

YE Muses, pour the pitying tear
For Pollio snatch’d away;
O! had he liv’d another year!—
He had not died 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.