speak of his death with the feeling, but manly composure, which becomes the dignified regret it ought to inspire. To say any thing to you at this moment, in the fresh hour of your unburthened sorrows-to depict, to dwell upon the great traits of his character-must be unnecessary, and almost insulting. His image still lives before your eyes-his virtues are in your hearts-his loss is your despair. I have seen in a public print, what are stated to have been his last words-and they are truly stated. They were these-"I die happy." Then, turning to the more immediate objects of his private affections, he added, "but, I pity you." Gentlemen, this statement is precisely true. But, oh! if the solemn fleeting hour had allowed of such considerations, and if the unassuming nature of his dignified mind had not withheld him, which of you will allow his title to have said, not only to the sharers of his domestic love, hanging in mute despair upon his couch-"I pity you;" but prophetically to have added, "I pity England-I pity Europe-I pity human nature"? He died in the spirit of peace; tranquil in his own expiring heart, and cherishing to the last, with a parental solicitude, the consoling hope, that he should be able to give established tranqui lity to harassed, contending nations. Let us trust that, that stroke of death which has borne him from us, may not have left the peace of the world, and the civilised charities of man, as orphans upon the earth.

From this afflicting consideration I pass to one comparatively insignificant-yet it is the question we are met this day to consider-namely, the pretensions of those who have the presumption to aspire to succeed him. An honourable friend has proposed me as a person worthy of that proud distinction: and I cannot deny but that it is an object of ambition-unmixed, I think, with one unworthy motive-very near my heart.

Having thus avowed my ambition, or my presumption, as some have been pleased to call it, I have now to speak of my pretensions. Egotism is always offensive; and I am happy that my honourable friend, who has proposed me, has left me little or nothing to say on this head. He has stated and I avow and adopt his statement-that my claim to your favour rests on the fact, that I have, step by step, followed Mr. Fox through the whole

course of his political career, and, to the best of my poor abilities, supported him in every one of those measures, and in the maintenance of every one of those principles, which originally recommended him to, and so long continued him in, your confidence and esteem. And to that I may fairly add, that he never for a moment was left unattended by my most fond and faithful friendship. It is true, there have been occasions upon which I have differed with him—painful recollection of the most painful moments of my political life!-Nor were there wanting those who endeavoured to represent those differences as a departure from the homage which his superior mind, though unclaimed by him, was entitled to, and the alle giance of friendship which our hearts all swore to him; but never was the genuine and confiding texture of his soul more manifest than on such occasions-he knew that nothing on earth could detach me from him-and he resented insinuations against the sincerity and inte grity of a friend, which he would not have noticed, had, they been pointed against himself. He scorned the suspicion that I could for one moment desert a friend whose exile from power I felt it more glorious to share, than all the honours and emoluments that government and kings are able to bestow. With such a man, to have battled in the cause of genuine liberty--with such a man, to have struggled against the inroads of oppression and corruption-with such an example before me, to have to boast that I never in my life gave one vote in parliament that was not on the side of freedom, is the congratulation that attends the retrospect of my public life. His friendship was the pride and honour of my days. I never, for one moment, regretted to share with him the difficulties, the calumnies, and sometimes even the dangers, that attended an honourable course. And now, reviewing my past political life, were the option possible that I should retread the path, I solemnly and deliberately declare, that I would prefer to pursue the same course-to bear up under the same pressure to abide by the same principles-and remain by his side, an exile from power, distinction, and emolument, rather than be at this moment a splendid example of successful servility, er prosperous apostacy-though clothed with power,. honour, and titles, gorged with sinecures, and lord of

hoards, obtained from the plunder of the people! If I have missed the opportunity of obtaining all the support I might perhaps have had, on the present occasion, from a very scrupulous delicacy, which I think became, and was incumbent upon me― -but which, I by no means conceive to have been a fit rule for others-I cannot repent it. In so doing, I acted on the feelings upon which I am sensible that all those would have acted who loved Mr. Fox as I did. I felt within myself that while the slightest aspiration might still quiver on those lips, that were the copious channels of eloquence, wisdom, and benevolence that while one drop of life's blood might still warm that heart, which throbbed only for the good of mankind—I could not, I ought not to have acted otherwise than I did,

There is in true friendship this advantage, that the inferior mind looks to the presiding intellect, as its guide and landmark while living, and to the engraven memory of his principles, as a rule of conduct after his death. Yet further still, unmixed with idle superstition, there may be gained a salutary lesson from contemplating what would be grateful to the mind of the departed, were he conscious of what is passing here. I do solemnly believe, that could such a consideration have entered into Mr. Fox's last moments-there is nothing his wasted spirits would so have deprecated, as a contest of the nature which I now deprecate and relinquish.-Above all, he would be most sorely afflicted, should that concord and harmony which he was so anxious should prevail among the present administration, be disturbed by a friend of his, and that by a contest to succeed to his situation.

The hour is not far distant, when an awful knell shall tell you, that the unburied remains of your revered patriot are passing through your streets to that sepulchral home where your kings-your heroes-your sages-and your poets, will be honoured by an association with his mortal remains. At that hour, when the sad solemnity shall take place-in a private way, as more suited to the simple dignity of his character, than the splendid gaudiness of publie pageantry;—when you, all of you, will be self-marshalled in reverential sorrow-mute, and reflecting on your mighty loss-at that moment, shall the disgusting contest of an election-wrangle break the solem

nity of such a scene? Is it fitting that any man should overlook the crisis, and risk the monstrous and disgusting contest? Is it fitting that I should be that man?

XXV. Monody to the memory of Mr. Garrick.

Ir dying excellence deserves a tear,
If fond remembrance still is cherish'd here;
Can we persist to bid your sorrows flow

For fabled suff'rers and delusive woe?

Or with quaint smiles dismiss the plaintive strain,
Point the quick jest, indulge the comic vein,
Ere yet to buried Roscius we assign
One kind regret, one tributary line?
His fame requires we act a tend❜rer part;
His mem'ry claims the tear you gave his art!

The gen❜ral voice, the meed of mournful verse,
The splendid sorrows that adorn'd his hearse,
The throng that mourn'd as their dead fav'rite past,
The grac'd respect that claim'd him to the last;
While Shakespeare's image, from its hallow'd base,
Seem'd to prescribe the grave, and point the place,
Nor these, nor all the sad regrets that flow
From fond fidelity's domestic woe,

So much are Garrick's praise-so much his due,
As on this spot one tear bestow'd by you.

Amid the arts, which seek ingenuous fame,
Our toil attempts the most precarious claim!
To him, whose magic pencil wins the prize,
Obedient fame immortal wreaths supplies:
Whate'er of wonder Reynolds now may raise,
Raphael still boasts contemporary praise!
Each dazzling light and gaudier bloom subdu'd,
With, undiminish'd awe his works are view'd:
Ev'n beauty's portrait wears a softer prime,
Touch'd by the tender hand of mellowing time.

The patient sculptor owns an humbler part,
A ruder toil and more mechanic art;

Content with slow and tim'rous stroke to trace
The ling'ring line, and mould the tardy grace:
But once achiev'd, the barb'rous wrecks o'erthrow
The sacred fane, and lay its glories low,
Yet shall the sculptur'd ruin rise to-day,
Grac'd by defect and worshipp'd in decay;
Th' enduring record bears the artist's name,
Demands his honours, and assists his fame.

Superior hopes the poets' bosom fire,
O proud distinction of the sacred lyre!
Wide as aspiring Phoebus darts his ray,
Diffusive splendor gilds his vot'ry's lay.

Whether the song heroic woes rehearse,
With epic grandeur, and the pomp of verse,
Or, fondly gay, with unambitious guile,.
Attempt no prize but fav'ring beauty's smile;
Or bear dejected to the lonely grove
The soft despair of unprevailing love;
Whate'er the theme, through ev'ry age and clime
Congenial passions meet th' according rhyme;
The pride of glory, pity's sigh sincere,
Youth's earliest blush, and beauty's virgin tear.

Such is their meed; their honours thus secure,
Whose hearts yield objects, and whose works endure;
The actor only shrinks from time's award;
Feeble tradition is his mem'ry's guard;
By.whose faint breath his merits must abide;
Unvouch'd by proof, to substance unallied!
Ev'n matchless Garrick's art, to heav'n resign'd,
No fix'd effect, no model leaves behind.

The grace of action, the adapted mien,
Faithful as nature to the varied scene;

Th' expressive glance, whose subtle comment draws
Entranc'd attention, and a mute applause;
Gesture that marks, with force and feeling fraught,
A sense in silence, and a will in thought;
Harmonious speech, whose pure and liquid tone
Gives verse a music, scarce confess'd its own;