Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 1.djvu/75

Rh Pity her dewy wings before him spread,

For noble spirits "war not with the dead:"

His friends in tears, a last sad requiem gave,

As all his errors slumber'd in the grave;

He sunk, an Atlas bending 'neath the weight

Of cares o'erwhelming our conflicting state.

When, lo! a Hercules, in Fox, appear'd,

Who for a time the ruin'd fabric rear'd:

He, too, is fall'n, who Britain's loss supplied,

With him, our fast reviving hopes have died;

Not one great people, only, raise his urn,

All Europe's far-extended regions mourn.

"These feelings wide, let Sense and Truth unclue,

To give the palm where Justice points its due;"

Yet, let not canker'd Calumny assail,

Or round her statesman wind her gloomy veil.

Fox! o'er whose corse a mourning world must weep,

Whose dear remains in honour'd marble sleep;

For whom, at last, e'en hostile nations groan,

While friends and foes, alike, his talents own.—