Lost excellence! what harp shall hymn thy worth,
  Nor wrong the theme? conspicuously in thee,
Beyond the blind pre-eminence of birth,
  Shone Nature in her own regality! 
Coerced, thy Spirit smiled, sedate in pride,
  Fixt as the pine, while circling storms contend;
But, when in Life’s serener duties tried,
  How sweetly did its gentle essence blend,
All-beauteous in the wife, the daughter, and the
    friend!

Not lull’d in langours, indolent and weak,
  Nor winged by pleasure, fled thy early hours;
But ceaseless vigils blanch’d thy virgin cheek,
  In silent Study’s dim-sequester’d bowers: 
Propitious there, to thy admiring mind,
  With brow unveil’d, consenting Science came;
There Taste awoke her sympathies refined;
 There Genius, kindling his etherial flame,
Led thy young soul the Muse’s heights to dare,
  And mount on Milton’s wing, and breathe empyreal air!

But chiefly, conscious of thy promised throne,
  Intent to grace that destiny sublime;
Thou sought’st to make the historic page thine own,
  And win the treasures of recorded time;
The forms of polity, the springs of power,
  Exploring still with inexhausted zeal;
Still, the pole-star which led thy studious hour
  Through Thought’s unfolding tracts—­thy Country’s weal! 
While Fancy, radiant with unearthly charms,
  Thus breathed the whisper Wisdom sanctified: 
“Eliza’s, Anna’s glories, arts, or arms,
  Beneath thy sway shall blaze revivified,
And still prolonged, and still augmenting, shine
Interminably bright in thy illustrious line!”

’Tis past—­thy name, with every charm it bore,
Melts on our souls, like music heard no more,
The dying minstrel’s last ecstatic strain,
Which mortal hand shall never wake again—­
But, if, blest spirit! in thy shrine of light,
Life’s visions rise to thy celestial sight;
If that bright sphere where raptured seraphs glow,
Permit communion with this world of woe;
And sore, if thus our fond affections deem,
Hope mocks us not, for Heaven inspires the dream—­
Benignant shade! the beatific kiss
That seal’d thy welcome to the shores of bliss,
No holier joy instill’d, than then wilt feel
If thine the task thy kindred’s woes to heal;
If hovering yet, with viewless ministry,
In scenes which Memory consecrates to thee,
Thou soothe with binding balm which grief endears,
A Sire’s, a Husband’s, and—­a Mother’s tears!—­

Till Pity’s self expire, a Nation’s sighs,
Spontaneous incense! o’er thy tomb shall rise: 
And, ’midst the dark vicissitudes that wait
Earth’s balanced empires in the scales of Fate,
Be thou OUR angel-advocate the while,
And gleam, a guardian saint, around thy native isle!

THE PRESUMPTUOUS FLY.

Sung by Mr. PYNE.—­Composed by Mr. ROOKE.