Could aught have pleaded for their fav'rite child,

Thou still hadst liv'd, and ALBION still had smil'd;
But no! In vengeance to a guilty Land,

Th' ALMIGHTY lifted up his chast'ning Hand,
(Sent forth in wrath against th'unfruitful tree)

And, in sore judgement, let it fall on Thee!

And Thou art gone then! BRITAIN's proudest boast!
Gone when thy widow'd Country wants thee most.
The honest heart where native ardour blaz'd;
The piercing eye which awe-struck foes amaz'd;
The patriot's pow'rful tongue, whose siren sway
Could charm foul Faction's jarring fiends away;
Whose magick force appall'd the guilty soul,

And held admiring Senates in controul;
The energetick hand, the tow'ring mind,
By Int'rest's sordid fetters unconfin'd;

For these in vain we heave the wishful sigh,
In PITT at once they liv'd, with PITT they die!

Lamented Patriot! BRITAIN's strongest shield, The skill'd Physician which her sickness heal'd; Whose words, whose counsels purest zeal inspir'd, By foes respected, and by friends admir'd; Unknown to bend to Titles or to Pow'r,

Or change thy tenets with the changing hour;

Who still secure through ev'ry gale could'st steer,
Stranger alike to rashness and to fear

;

To whom no meaner thoughts of self were known,
Who in thy Country's int'rest lost thine own;
Uncaught by Pleasure's or by Flatt'ry's lure,

Sound 'midst Disease, amidst Corruption pure,

And 'mongst a Nation's coffers proudly poor!
Blest Shade, farewell! great CHATHAM's true-born Son,
Thy short, but glorious, race of Life is run!

Stern Death, with rapid stride advancing near,

Check'd in its midway course thy bright career;

His envious hand the deadly shaft did aim,

Swift and unerring to the mark it came;
With force resistless struck the sacred head,
And laid its mighty Victim 'mongst the dead!

Not so thy Fame. That shall his pow'r defy; Thy name, thy deeds, thy virtues ne'er shall die: Enshrin'd in ev'ry BRITON's grateful breast,

These still shall live; and, living, still be bless'd :
That Country which, alive, was all thy care,

Which, dying, prompted thy last falt'ring prayer,
With pious love shall consecrate thy Name;
To future ages shall record thy Fame:

1

And when her sons a Model shall demand,

By which they best may serve their native Land,

For ev'ry trial, ev'ry season fit," ::

She'll drop a grateful tear,―and point to PITT!

THE ATHEIST.

Doubtless there is a GOD!

PSALMS OF DAVID.

I had rather believe all the fables in the Legend, and the Talmud, and Alcoran, than that this Universal Frame is without a Mind.

BACON.

WHAT Sounds were those that cross'd mine ear?

Some madman's ravings! for it cannot be

That notions such as those could e'er inhabit
In the sound mind; poor forlorn maniac!

Methought he said there was no GOD, Horatio!
Alas his wits are fled-ha! what! thou look'st,

Nay on my soul thou dost, as thou would'st say
That he has faculties like other men,

And is distemper'd only in my fancy!

Fye on't, it cannot be; it must not, shall not;
Dost thou believe, Horatio, that the mind

Which Reason's lamp illumines can think thus?
That rational reflecting Man can view
Nature alive around him; can survey

This Universal Frame, this vast Machine,

With all its complicate component parts,
Confederate links of one great chain of Being,

Held in exactest poize,-can he do this,

And doubt th' existence of one grand FIRST CAUSE, Which call'd up countless worlds from the abyss, Bade Darkness fly his presence, and be Light,

And order'd shapeless Chaos into Form?

Can he behold the varied Seasons roll

In certain revolution; can he mark

The Sun's diurnal course; can he

survey

Himself, his own proud self, so fearfully