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Not upon marble or sepulchral brass
Have I the record of thy worth inscribed,
Dear Uncle! nor from Chantrey's chisel ask'd
A monumental statue, which might wear
Thro' many an age thy venerable form.
Such tribute, were I rich in this world's wealth,
Should rightfully be rendered, in discharge
Of grateful duty, to the world evinced
When testifying so by outward sign
Its deep and inmost sense.

But what I can
Is rendered piously, prefixing here
Thy perfect lineaments, two centuries
Before thy birth by Holbein's happy hand
Prefigured thus. It is the portraiture

Of More the mild, the learned and the good;
Traced in that better stage of human life,
When vain imaginations, troublous thoughts,
And hopes and fears have had their course, and left
The intellect composed, the heart at rest,
Nor yet decay hath touch'd our mortal frame.
Such was the man whom Henry, of desert
Appreciant alway, chose for highest trust;
Whom England in that eminence approved;
Whom Europe honoured, and Erasmus loved.
Such he was ere heart-hardening bigotry
Obscured his spirit, made him with himself
Discordant, and, contracting then his brow,
With sour defeature marr'd his countenance.
What he was, in his best and happiest time,
Even such wert thou, dear Uncle! such thy look
Benign and thoughtful; such thy placid mien;
Thine eye serene, significant and strong,
Bright in its quietness, yet brightening oft
With quick emotion of benevolence,
Or flash of active fancy, and that mirth
Which aye with sober wisdom well accords.
Nor ever did true Nature, with more nice
Exactitude, fit to the inner man
The fleshly mould, than when she stampt on thine
Her best credentials, and bestowed on thee

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An aspect, to whose sure benignity
Beasts with instinctive confidence could trust,
Which at a glance obtained respect from men,
And won at once good will from all the good.

Such as in semblance, such in word and deed Lisbon beheld him, when for many a year The even tenour of his spotless life Adorn'd the English Church,..her minister In that strong hold of Rome's idolatry, To God and man approved. What Englishman, Who in those peaceful days of Portugal Resorted thither, curious to observe Her cities, and the works and ways of men, But sought him, and from his abundant stores Of knowledge profited? What stricken one, Sent thither to protract a living death, Forlorn perhaps, and friendless else, but found A friend in him? What mourners,.. who had seen The object of their agonizing hopes In that sad cypress ground deposited, Wherein so many a flower of British growth, Untimely faded and cut down, is laid, In foreign earth compress’d,.. but bore away A life-long sense of his compassionate care, His Christian goodness? Faithful shepherd he,

And vigilant against the wolves, who there,
If entrance might be won, would straight beset
The dying stranger, and with merciless zeal
Bay the death-bed! In every family
Throughout his fold was he the welcome guest,
Alike to every generation dear,
The children's favourite, and the grandsire's friend,
Tried, trusted and beloved. So liberal too
In secret alms, even to his utmost means,
That they who served him, and who saw in part
The channels where his constant bounty ran,
Maugre their own uncharitable faith,
Believed him, for his works, secure of Heaven.

It would have been a grief for me to think
The features, which so perfectly express'd
That excellent mind, should irretrievably
From earth have past away, existing now
Only in some few faithful memories
Insoul'd, and not by any limner's skill
To be imbodied thence. A blessing then
On him, in whose prophetic counterfeit
Preserved, the children now, who were the crown
Of his old age, may see their father's face,
Here to the very life pourtray'd, as when
Spain's mountain passes, and her ilex woods,

And fragrant wildernesses, side by side,
With him I traversed, in my morn of youth.
And gathered knowledge from his full discourse.
Often in former years I pointed out,
Well-pleased, the casual portrait, which so well
Assorted in all points ; and haply since,
While lingering o'er this meditative work,
Sometimes that likeness, not unconsciously,
Hath tinged the strain ; and therefore, for the sake
Of this resemblance, are these volumes now
Thus to his memory properly inscribed.

O friend ! O more than father! whom I found Forbearing alway, alway kind; to whom No gratitude can speak the debt I owe ; Far on their earthly pilgrimage advanced Are they who knew thee when we drew the breath Of that delicious clime! The most are gone; And whoso yet survive of those who then Were in their summer season, on the tree Of life hang here and there like wintry leaves, Which the first breeze will from the bough bring down. I, too, am in the sear, the yellow leaf. And yet, (no wish is nearer to my heart ;) One arduous labour more, as unto thee In duty bound, full fain would I compleat,

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