466 DEATH OF LORD GEORGE BENTINCK. 



A friend's misfortune ever prompt to feel, 



He passed not unconcerned, but stopped to heal : 



A good Samaritan too oft repaid 



With injuries and wrong for timely aid. 



Others might boast more questionable arts 



In twisting facts, more sleight in juggling hearts. 



Eough truths he published, in frieze jerkins dight ; 



His was no gift of tickling ears polite. 



An honest man, with noblest zeal inspired, 



No threats appalled him, and no labours tired. 



Bent to repress the licence of the times, 



He tore their silken draperies from crimes. 



Straight to the point he went, abrupt and dry ; 



Tricks he called knavery, and a lie a lie. 



Within the portals of that gloomy gate 



Where Harcourt House maintains Batavian state, 



On the right hand the modest chamber lies ; 



No scarlet boxes greeting curious eyes. 



Yet there he toiled with more results to show 



Than well-paid Minister in State bureau. 



Health failing, food neglected, rest foregone, 



But like the mettled steed, still struggling on, 



Oblivious of the paltry bounds assigned 



To strongest frame and most capacious mind. 



Alas, my friend ! had all been such as thou, 

 Honest and true, I had not mourned thee now ! 

 The springy turf of Goodwood's wide domain, 

 The stirring contests of Newmarket's plain, 

 Thou hadst not left, for scenes where parties rave, 

 A worn-out spirit and an early grave. 



Grey morning saw thee full of kindly cheer ; 

 Dark evening brooded pall-wise o'er thy bier ; 



