The Grave of Wilberforce, By Thomas Hill
–––– Extinctus amabitur idem. ––Hor.
Though least in fame, and last in time,
Of all, whose tributary rhyme
In Freedom's cause you crave;
Yet, for my subject's sake, excuse
The long delay, and lowly muse:
'Tis Wilberforce's Grave.
Auspicious year! in whose short span
To saints on high and captive man
Two choicest boons were given:
While Freedom wings her speediest flight
To tribes immured in Slavery's night,
Her champion soars to Heaven.
How glowed that breast, now cold in death,
How from those lips once flowed a breath
Could listening senates move,
Could still each sneer, could quell each strife
Speak ye, who prized him in his life,
And still his ashes love!
For lo! his obsequies to grace,
The noblest of the British race
At Britain's call appear;
Hushed are the storms of loud debate,
While, midst the ashes of the Great,
Descends a Patriot's bier.
The Throne, the Church, their tribute yield;
The Bar, the Senate, and the Field,
Their varied honours blend;
See HOWLEY'S meekness, WELLESLEY'S might,
ELDON, the prop of ancient right,
And BROUGHAM, sweet Freedom's friend.
Conspicuous, on his native coast,
The storied obelisk shall boast
The first-fruits of his fame;
And shew to each adventurous youth,
That glory crowns the paths of truth,
And guards the Patriot's name.
Yet has he won a nobler prize!
A ransomed native of the skies,
He lays his laurels down,
Where, robed in Heaven's immortal dress,
He boasts a Saviour's righteousness,
And wears a blood-bought crown.
Thomas Hill,
Chesterfield Vicarage.