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His was the thunder-his the avenging rod,
The wrath—the delegated voice of God!
Which shook the nations through his lips-and blazed Till vanquish'd senates trembled as they praised.
And here, oh! here, where yet all young and warm
The matchless dialogue-the deathless wit,
The glowing portraits, fresh from life, that bring
To fulness by the fiat of his thought,
Which still the splendour of its orb betrays.
But should there be to whom the fatal blight
Is fix'd for ever to detract or praise;
Behold the host! delighting to deprave,
Meet sordid Rage--and wrestle with Disgrace,
By clouds surrounded, and on whirlwinds borne,
Thoughts which have turn'd to thunder-scorch-and
But far from us and from our mimic scene
Such things should be—if such have ever been
Ours be the gentler wish, the kinder task,
To give the tribute Glory need not ask,
The worthy rival of the wondrous Three!*
He was your brother-bear his ashes hence!