TO THE REV. WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES,

CANON OF SALISBURY, ETC.

UNHONOUR'D lay poor Butler's nameless grave,
One line, the hand of pitying friendship gave.
'Twas his with pure confiding heart to trust
The flattering minions of a monarch's lust;
And hope that faith a private debt would own,
False to the honour of a nation's throne.

Such were the lines insulted virtue pour'd,
And such the wealth of wit's exhaustless hoard;
Of keenest wisdom dallying with her scorn,
And playful jest of indignation born;
And honest hatred of that godless crew,
To king, to country;-to themselves untrue :
The hands that laid the blameless mitre low,
That gave great Wentworth to the headsman's
blow,

And their's the deed immortalized in shame, Which raised a monarch to a martyr's name. Oh! friend! with me thy thoughtful sorrows join,

Thy heart will answer each desponding line; Say, when thy hand o'er KEN'S neglected grave At once the flowers of love and learning gave; Or when was heard, beneath each listening tree, The lute sweet Archimage had lent to thee:

vi

Say, while thy day was like a summer dream,
And musing leisure met thee by the stream,
Where thro' rich weeds the lulling waters crept,
And the huge forest's massive umbrage slept,
And, summon'd by thy harp's aerial spell,
The shadowy tribes came trooping from their cell;
(For still 'twas thine, with all a poet's art,
To paint the living landscape of the heart;
And still to nature's soft enchantments true,
Feel every charm, and catch each varying hue ;)
Couldst thou foresee how soon the poet's strain
Would wake its satire into truth again;
How soon the still-revolving wheel of time
Recall the past-each folly, and each crime;
Again the petty tyrant boast his flame,
And raise, on fancied ills, a patriot's name;
How soon the trembling altar fade away,
The hallow'd temple prove the spoiler's prey;
The throne its proud ancestral honours yield,
And faction shake the senate and the field;
How folly seize, while bleeding freedom wept,
That sacred ark which jealous wisdom kept;
Which, virtuous Falkland! saw thy banners wave,
Which Somers lived, and Chatham died to save;
While history points her awful page in vain,
And sees all Butler scorn'd, revive again.

J. M.

BENHALL, Feb. 1835.