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LINES TO THE MEMORY OF THE LATE RIGHT HON. GEORGE CANNING.


Why does Britannia bend with pensive mien,
And throbbing bosom o'er that sable bier,
To which yon melancholy group is seen
In mute affliction slowly drawing near,
Whilst weeping genius, pointing to the sky,
In silent anguish heaves a plaintive sigh?

She seems to take a lingering last farewell,
As down her cheek the pearly teardrops flow,
Of some lamented spirit she lov'd well,
By Fate's inexorable shaft laid low;
And thus half broken-hearted to complain
"When shall we look upon thy like again!"

Poor drooping maid--she mourns the doom of one,
Whom at a time like this she ill can spare,--
Her talented and patriotic son,
Whom art could not deceive, nor vice ensnare,
To truth and sacred liberty allied,
His country's hope, her honour and her pride!

Yes--he is gone, whose energetic mind
Upheld the pillars of a mighty state;