Part 2 — ON THE DEATH OF THE RIGHT HON. ——.60

Ye muses, pour the pitying tear, For Pollio snatch’d away; Oh! had he liv’d another year— He had not died to-day. Oh! were he born to bless mankind, In virtuous times of yore, Heroes themselves had fall’n behind— Whene’er he went before. How sad the groves and plains appear, And sympathetic sheep; Even pitying hills would drop a tear— If hills could learn to weep. His bounty in exalted strain Each bard might well display, Since none implor’d relief in vain— That went reliev’d away. And, hark! I hear the tuneful throng His obsequies forbid; He still shall live, shall live as long— As ever dead man did.