–––– 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.