Then, while on Britain’s thousand plains,
One unpolluted church remains,
Whose peaceful bells ne’er sent around
The bloody tocsin’s maddening sound, 120
But still, upon the hallow’d day,
Convoke the swains to praise and pray;
While faith and civil peace are dear,
Grace this cold marble with a tear,-
He, who preserved them, Pitt, lies here! 125

Nor yet suppress the generous sigh,
Because his rival slumbers nigh;
Nor be thy requiescat dumb,
Lest it be said o’er Fox’s tomb. 
For talents mourn, untimely lost, 130
When best employ’d, and wanted most;
Mourn genius high, and lore profound,
And wit that loved to play, not wound;
And all the reasoning powers divine,
To penetrate, resolve, combine; 135
And feelings keen, and fancy’s glow,—­
They sleep with him who sleeps below: 
And, if thou mourn’st they could not save
From error him who owns this grave,
Be every harsher thought suppress’d, 140
And sacred be the last long rest. 
Here, where the end of earthly things
Lays heroes, patriots, bards, and kings;
Where stiff the hand, and still the tongue,
Of those who fought, and spoke, and sung; 145
here, where the fretted aisles prolong
The distant notes of holy song,
As if some angel spoke agen,
‘All peace on earth, good-will to men;’
If ever from an English heart, 150
O, here let prejudice depart,
And, partial feeling cast aside,
Record, that Fox a Briton died! 
When Europe crouch’d to France’s yoke,
And Austria bent, and Prussia broke, 155
And the firm Russian’s purpose brave,
Was barter’d by a timorous slave,
Even then dishonour’s peace he spurn’d,
The sullied olive-branch return’d,
Stood for his country’s glory fast, 160
And nail’d her colours to the mast! 
Heaven, to reward his firmness, gave
A portion in this honour’d grave,
And ne’er held marble in its trust
Of two such wondrous men the dust. 165

With more than mortal powers endow’d,
How high they soar’d above the crowd! 
Theirs was no common party race,
Jostling by dark intrigue for place;
Like fabled Gods, their mighty war 170
Shook realms and nations in its jar;
Beneath each banner proud to stand,
Look’d up the noblest of the land,
Till through the British world were known
The names of Pitt and Fox alone. 175
Spells of such force no wizard grave
E’er framed in dark Thessalian cave,
Though his could drain the ocean dry,
And force the planets from the sky. 
These spells are spent, and, spent with these, 180
The wine of life is on the lees.