Of The Death Of The Left 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.