Design’d for a Statue of the Late W. Pitt
Ye who guard
From Faction’d baleful Circe the blest cup
By temp’rate Freedom on her sons bestow’d,
Rich with her purest pearl, behold your Chief!
Behold the awful form of him whose call
O’er Afric’s shores and Ganges’ hundred realmsy
Gave Conquest wings; of him whose spotless hand
While prostrate Europe ’midst her ruins wept,
Upheld her brightest shield; whose magic voice
Rebellion’s giant hydra heard and slept!
Such was the eye whose lightning glance explor’d
Conspiracy’s dark depths! Thus, on the verge
Of pow’r’s sublimest steep unmov’d he stood,
While round its base the wide volcano yawn’d
Gorg’d with the wreck of empires; as the sun
Recedes not, but thro’ congregated clouds
Wins his resplendent way and cheers the world.
Pause, Patriots, and revere! yet not with tears
Nor with vain praise enrich his obsequies;
Nor to insensate marble’s aid alone
Confide his image; be yourselves like him!
Like him while rescued nations hail their guide,
Smile at the grasp of Death, and share with him
The bright Eternity of virtuous Fame!