George Lyttelton (1709–73)

I Come not here your Candour to implore

For Scenes, whose Author is, alas! no more;

He wants no Advocate his Cause to plead;

You will yourselves be Patrons of the Dead.

No Party his Benevolence confin’d

No Sect—alike it flow’d to all Mankind.

He lov’d his Friends (forgive this gushing Tear:

Alas! I feel I am no Actor here)

He lov’d his Friends with such a Warmth of Heart,

So clear of Int’rest, so devoid of Art,

Such generous Freedom, such unshaken Zeal,

No Words can speak it, but our Tears may tell.—

O candid Truth, O Faith without a Stain,

O Manners gently firm, and nobly plain,

O sympathizing Love of others Bliss,

Where will you find another Breast like His?—

Such was the Man—the Poet well you know:

Oft has he touch’d your Hearts with tender Woe:

Oft in this crouded House with just Applause

You heard him teach fair Virtue’s purest Laws;

For his chaste Muse employ’d her Heav’n-taught Lyre

None but the noblest Passions to inspire,

Not one immoral, one corrupted Thought,

One Line, which dying he could wish to blot.

Oh may To-night your favourable Doom

Another Laurel add to grace his Tomb:

Whilst he, superior now to Praise or Blame,

Hears net the feeble Voice of Human Fame.

Yet if to those whom most on Earth he lov’d,

From whom his pious Care is now remov’d,

With whom his liberal Hand, and bounteous Heart

Shar’d all his little Fortune could impart,

If to those Friends your kind Regard shall give

What they no longer can from His receive,

That, that, even now, above yon starry Pole,

May touch with Pleasure his immortal Soul.