Then when dark arts obscured each fierce debate,
  When mutual frauds perplex’d the maze of state,
  The moderator firmly mild appear’d—­
  Beheld with love, with veneration heard.

   This task perform’d—­he sought no gainful post,
  Nor wish’d to glitter at his country’s cost;
  Strict on the right he fix’d his steadfast eye,
  With temperate zeal and wise anxiety; 30
  Nor e’er from Virtue’s paths was lured aside,
  To pluck the flowers of pleasure, or of pride;
  Her gifts despised, Corruption blush’d and fled,
  And Fame pursued him where Conviction led.

   Age call’d, at length, his active mind to rest,
  With honour sated, and with cares oppress’d: 
  To letter’d ease retired, and honest mirth. 
  To rural grandeur, and domestic worth: 
  Delighted still to please mankind, or mend,
  The patriot’s fire yet sparkled in the friend. 40

   Calm Conscience then his former life survey’d,
  And recollected toils endear’d the shade,
  Till Nature call’d him to her general doom,
  And Virtue’s sorrow dignified his tomb.

* * * * *

  ON THE DEATH OF STEPHEN GREY, F.R.S.,

  THE ELECTRICIAN.

  Long hast thou borne the burden of the day;
  Thy task is ended, venerable Grey! 
  No more shall Art thy dexterous hand require,
  To break the sleep of elemental fire;
  To rouse the power that actuates Nature’s frame,
  The momentaneous shock, the electric flame;
  The flame which first, weak pupil to thy lore,
  I saw, condemn’d, alas! to see no more.

   Now, hoary sage! pursue thy happy flight;
  With swifter motion, haste to purer light, 10
  Where Bacon waits, with Newton and with Boyle,
  To hail thy genius and applaud thy toil;
  Where intuition breathes through time and space,
  And mocks Experiment’s successive race;
  Sees tardy Science toil at Nature’s laws,
  And wonders how the effect obscures the cause.

  Yet not to deep research or happy guess,
  Is show’d the life of hope, the death of peace;
  Unbless’d the man whom philosophic rage
  Shall tempt to lose the Christian in the Sage:  20
  Not Art, but Goodness, pour’d the sacred ray
  That cheer’d the parting hours of humble Grey.

* * * * *

  TO MISS HICKMAN,

  PLAYING ON THE SPINNET.

  Bright Stella! form’d for universal reign,
  Too well you know to keep the slaves you gain: 
  When in your eyes resistless lightnings play,
  Awed into love our conquer’d hearts obey,
  And yield reluctant to despotic sway: 
  But when your music soothes the raging pain,
  We bid propitious Heaven prolong your reign,
  We bless the tyrant, and we hug the chain.