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Nelson and Pitt.
DEEP grav'd in ev'ry British heart,
Nor mourn ye less his perish'd worth Who bade the conqueror go forth, And launch'd that thunderbolt of war On Egypt, Hafnia,* Trafalgar ; Who, born to guide such high emprize, For Britain's weal was early wise ; Alas! to whom the Almighty gave, For Britain's sins, an early grave : His worth, who, in his mightiest hour, A bauble held the pride of pow'r, Spurn'd at the sordid lust of pelf, And serv’d his Albion for herself ; Who, when the frantic crowd amain Strain'd at subjection's bursting rein, O’er their wild mood full conquest gain’d, The pride he could not crush, restrain'd,
Shew'd their fierce zeal a worthier cause,
O think, how to his latest day,
The Country Parson.
Near yonder copse, where once the garden smild,
Remote from towns he ran his godly race,
Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,
Beside the bed where parting life was laid,
The rev'rend champion stood. At his control, Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul ; Comfort came down, the trembling wretch to raise, And his last falt'ring accents whisper'd praise.
At church, with meek and unaffected grace, His looks adorn’d the venerable place; Truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway, And fools, who came to scoff, remain’d to pray. The service past, around the pious man, With ready zeal, each honest rustic ran; E'en children follow'd, with endearing wile, And pluck'd his gown, to share the good man's smile. His ready smile a parent's warmth express’d, Their welfare pleas’d him, and their cares distress'd; To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given, But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven. As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form, Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, Eternal sunshine settles on its head.
O say not, dream not, heav'nly notes
To childish ears are vain;
And cannot reach the strain.
Dim or unheard the words may fall,
And yet the heav'n-taught mind May learn the sacred air, and all
The harmony unwind.
Was not our Lord a little child,
Taught by degrees to pray ;
Instructed day by day?
And lov'd he not of heav'n to talk,
With children in his sight; To meet them in his daily walk,
And to his arms invite?
What though around his throne of fire
The everlasting chant
In glory jubilant !
Yet stoops he, ever pleas’d to mark
Our rude essays of love,
Heard by some twilight grove.
Yet is he near us, to survey
These bright and order'd files, Like spring-flow'rs in their best array,
All silence and all smiles.