Come, Poesy, and pour thy tenderest strain,
And let thy mournful numbers softly flow;
O, could they soothe a Father's sacred woe
Or ease his bosom of a moment's pain!
Alas, the sweetest melody were vain!
His Country's love no longer can inspire,
The Statesman's eloquence, the Patriot's fire;
Can raise the voice that charm'd a Nation's ear,
Or wake the pen that made the world admire.
—All, all, are gone! — and BURKE, to Science dear,
In silent sorrow bends his reverend head:
Yet oft, ere number'd with the honour'd dead,
Shall Feeling mourn his melancholy doom;
'Till Genius raise, and Virtue guard, his tomb!