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LORD Grenville's INSTALLATION. 59
And of his iron arch the rainbow span:Yet, while in burning characters impressed, The poet's lesson stamps the youthful breast, Bids the rapt boy o'er suffering virtue bleed, Adore a brave or bless a gentle deed, And in warm feeling from the storied page Arise the saint, the hero, or the sage;Such be our toil!—Nor doubt we to explore The thorny maze of dialectic lore, To climb the chariot of the gods, or scan The secret workings of the soul of man;Upborne aloft on Plato's eagle flight, Or the slow pinion of the Stagyrite;And those gray spoils of Herculanean pride,
If aught of yet untasted sweets they hide;If Padua's sage be there, or art have power To wake Menander from his secret bower jSuch be our toil'.—Nor vain the labor proves, Which Oxford honors, and which Grenville loves. —On, eloquent and firm !—whose warning high Rebuked the rising surge of anarchy, When, like those brethren stars to seamen known, In kindred splendor Pitt and Grenville shone;On in thy glorious course ; not yet the wave Has ceased to lash the shore, nor storm forgot to
rave. Go on ; and O, while adverse factions raise To thy pure worth involuntary praise;
60 LORD GRENVILLE’S INSTALLATION.
While Gambia's swarthy tribes thy mercies bless,
Such Cobham was ;-such, Grenville, long be
thou, Our boast before—our chief and champion now.
EPITAPH ON A YOUNG NAVAL
DESIGNED FOR A TOMB IN A SEAPORT TOWN
Sailor, if vigor nerve thy frame,
Revere this stone, that gives to fame
For manly beauty decked his form,
His bright eye beamed with mental power; Resistless as the winter storm,
In war's hoarse rage, in ocean's strife,
Still prompt to shield a comrade's life,
Yet, youthful seaman, mourn not thou
No, Cambrian, no, be thine the vow,
But hast thou known a father's care, Who sorrowing sent thee forth to sea;
Poured for thy weal the unceasing prayer, And thought, the sleepless night, on thee?
Has e'er thy tender fancy flown, When winds were strong and waves were high,
Where, listening to the tempest's moan,
Or in the darkest hour of dread,
'Mid war's wild din, and ocean's swell,
Hast mourned a hero brother dead,
Then pity those whose sorrows flow
Sailor, thou weep'st:—Indulge thy wo;
AN EVENING WALK IN BENGAL.
O0H task is done ; on Gunga's breast
Come, walk with me the jungle through;