THE

MOURNERS,

A SKETCH FROM LIFE *.

RUTLAND is gone! and free from toils

Of ill-requited sway;

No fycophants now court his fmiles;

No tools his nod obey.

The flower of many a promis'd year
Snatch'd off in early bloom;

To candour, juftice, honour dear,
He dropt into the tomb.

No weeping confort smooth'd his couch;

No anxious parent nigh;

No kindred friend his end to vouch,
Or close his asking eye.

Silent is every venal bard;

Mute every fawning tongue;

No dirges in the streets are heard;

No folemn knell is rung.

Suppofe

Suppose them all but empty show,

Where is decorum fled?

Has custom nothing to bestow;

Not one forc'd tear to shed?

Joy mark'd the dawning of his reign;
All hearts his prefence fir'd;

But with him died the hope of gain,

And gratitude expir'd.

Envy, thro' mists that all things views,
His life prefumes to scan ;

And flander tells us, wondrous news!

He was, alas! but man.

Who?-Darkness hovering o'er the land

To polish'd arts averse

Who firft ftretch'd out his foftering hand, And bade the clouds disperse?

While here fair fcience holds a place,
Or learning bears a name,

Regret his memory shall trace,

And truth enhance his fame.

'Tis RUTLAND's due, the great defign
Our annals will atteft:

May wreaths unfading grace his shrine,
In peace his ashes reft!

Oft kindneffes not understood

Foul enmity produce,

And schemes replete with public good

Are branded with abuse.

The general weal, by few conceiv'd,
Confefs'd he there purfu'd;

But no refpect, of life bereav'd,
Could obloquy preclude.

When, lo! the royal mandate câme,

Το pour the mammon forth,

And down the foremost to defame
Fell proftrate to his worth.

Now arrogance and little pride

Obtrude their selfish claim; But rites, by narrow fouls denied,

Prove heralds of their shame.

T

Slow

Slow mov'd the long proceffion on

In fad funereal guife;

And grief thro' tears confpicuous fhone,
In youth and beauty's eyes.

Even age fubdued, tho' rigid grown

To pity and remorse,

Not yet quite harden'd into stone,

Beholds the fabled horse.

The horse that wont to bear his lord,
His lord no more to bear,
Drooping in dumb affliction, stirr'd
Each kind fenfation there.

The honeft Swifs, for Minden's chief,
Who risk'd his vital breath,

With fortitude fuftaining grief,

Felt thrice the ftroke of death.

He too whofe flack unnerved hand

Directs the doleful herse,

In other pomp was wont to drive,

And mourns the fad reverse.

One

One manly visage more appear'd,
Where deep diftrefs was writ;
Who can forget, fo long endear'd,
The honour'd name of PITT?

Ye fons of levity and whim,
Whom paltry cares enflave;

See, how pure nature's priz'd in him!
How tears become the brave!

Many who join'd the penfive train,

Might act a mimic part;

There, ftrongly character'd, 'twas plain

Keen forrow pierc'd the heart.

Nor idly spent your incense dread, y

Tho' fate your views retard; Viceroys and Kings are powerlefs dead,

The living may reward,

HYMN,