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If for that fate such public tears be shed,
That victory seems to die now Thou art dead;
How shall a friend his nearer hope resign,
That friend a brother, and whose soul was thine?
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 Rutland's virtues shall his griefs restrain,
And join to heal the bosom where they reign.
Yet hard the talk to heal the bleeding heart,
To bid the still-recurring thoughts depart;
Hush the loud grief, and stem the rising sigh,
And curb rebellious passion with reply;
F 2
Calmly
