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By what bold lines shall we his grief express,Or by what soothing numbers make it less? 'Tis not, I know, the chiming of a song,Nor all the powers that to the Muse belong,Words aptly cull'd and meanings well exprest,Can calm the sorrows of a wounded breast;But Virtue, soother of the fiercest pains,Shall heal that bosom, Rutland, where she reigns. Yet hard the task to heal the bleeding heart,To bid the still-recurring thoughts depart;Tame the fierce grief and stem the rising sigh.And curb rebellious passion, with reply;—Calmly to dwell on all that pleas'd before,And yet to know that all shall please no more;—Oh! glorious labour of the soul to saveHer captive powers, and bravely mourn the Brave. To such, these thoughts will lasting comfort give-Life is not measured by the time we live;'Tis not an even course of threescore years,A life of narrow views and paltry fears,Grey-hairs and wrinkles and the cares they bring,That take from Death, the terrors or the sting;But 'tis the gen'rous Spirit, mounting high,Above the world, that native of the sky;The noble Spirit, that, in dangers brave,Calmly looks on, or looks beyond the grave;Such Manners was, so he resign'd his breath,If in a glorious, then a timely, death. Cease then that grief and let those tears subside,If Passion rule us, be that passion Pride;
