TO THE REV. WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES,
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
And their's the deed immortalized in shame,
Which raised a monarch to a martyr's name.
Oh! friend! with me thy thoughtful sorrows
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 :