3.

  Here I can trace—­ah no! that eye,
    Whose azure floats in liquid fire,
  Must all the painter’s art defy,
    And bid him from the task retire.

4.

  Here I behold, its beauteous hue,
    But where’s the beam of soft desire? 
  Which gave a lustre to its blue,
    Love, only love, could e’er inspire.

5.

  Sweet copy! far more dear to me,
    Lifeless, unfeeling as thou art,
  Than all the living forms could be,
    Save her, who plac’d thee next my heart.

6.

  She plac’d it, sad with needless fear,
    Lest time might shake my wavering soul,
  Unconscious that her image there,
    Held every sense in fast controul.

7.

  Through hours, through years, through time ’twill cheer,
    My hope in gloomy moments raise;
  In life’s last conflict ’t’will appear,
    And meet my fond, expiring gaze.

* * * * *

ON THE DEATH OF MR. FOX, THE FOLLOWING ILLIBERAL IMPROMPTU APPEARED IN THE MORNING POST.

  “Our Nation’s foes, lament on Fox’s death,
  “But bless the hour, when PITT resign’d his breath;
  “These feelings wide, let Sense and Truth unclue,
  “We give the palm, where Justice points its due.”

To which the Author of these Pieces, sent the subjoined Reply, for Insertion in the MORNING CHRONICLE.—­

  Oh! factious viper! whose envenom’d tooth,
  Would mangle still the dead, in spite of truth,
  What though our “nation’s foes” lament the fate,
  With generous feeling, of the good and great;
  Shall therefore dastard tongues assail the name
  Of him whose virtues claim eternal fame? 
  When PITT expired in plenitude of power,
  Though ill success obscur’d his dying hour,
  Pity her dewy wings before him spread,
  For noble spirits “war not with the dead;”
  His friends in tears, a last sad requiem gave,
  And all his errors slumber’d in the grave. 
  He died an Atlas, bending ’neath the weight,
  Of cares oppressing our unhappy state;
  But lo! another Hercules appear’d,
  Who for a time, the ruined fabric rear’d;
  He too is dead! who still our England propp’d,
  With him our fast reviving hopes have dropp’d;
  Not one great people only raise his urn,
  All Europe’s far extended regions mourn. 
  “These feelings wide, let Sense and Truth unclue,
  “And give the palm where Justice points it due;”
  But let not canker’d calumny assail,
  And round our statesman wind her gloomy veil. 
  Fox! o’er whose corse a mourning world must weep,
  Whose dear remains in honoured marble sleep;
  For whom at last, even hostile nations groan,
  And friends and foes alike his talents own;
  Fox! shall in Britain’s future annals shine,
  Nor e’en to Pitt, the patriot’s palm resign;
  Which Envy, wearing Candour’s sacred mask,
  For PITT, and PITT alone, would dare to ask.