He who with labour draws his wasting breath
On the forsaken silent bed of death,
Rememb'ring thy last look and anxious eye,
Shall gaze around, unvisited, and die.

Friend of mankind, farewell!—these tears we shed, So nature dictates, o'er thy earthly bed; Yet we forget not, it was his high will, Who saw thee virtue's arduous task fulfil, Thy spirit from its toil at last should rest:So wills thy God, and what He wills is best!

Thou hast encounter'd dark disease's train,
Thou hast convers'd with poverty and pain,
Thou hast beheld the dreariest forms of woe,
That through this mournful vale unfriended go;
And pale with sympathy has paus'd to hear
The saddest plaints e'er told to human ear.
Go then, the task fulfill'd, the trial o'er,

Where sickness, want, and pain, are known no more!

How awful did thy lonely track appear,

Enlight'ning misery's benighted sphere!

As when an angel all-serene forth

goes

To still the raging tempest of the North,
Th' embattl'd clouds that hid the struggling day,
Slow from his face retire in dark array;
On the black waves, like promontories hung,
A light, as of the orient morn, is flung,
Till blue and level heaves the silent brine,
And the new-lighted rocks at distance shine:
E'en so didst thou go forth with cheering eye-
Before thy look the shades of misery fly;
So didst thou hush the tempest, stilling wide
Of human woe the loud-lamenting tide.

Nor shall the spirit of those deeds expire,
As fades the feeble spark of vital fire,

But beam abroad, and cheer with lustre mild
Humanity's remotest prospects wild,

Till this frail orb shall from its sphere be hurl'd,
Till final ruin hush the murmuring world,

And all its sorrows, at the awful blast

Of the Archangel's trump, be but as shadows past!

Relentless Time, that steals with silent tread, Shall tear away the trophies of the dead.

Fame, on the pyramid's aspiring top,
With sighs shall her recording trumpet drop;
The feeble characters of Glory's hand

Shall perish, like the tracks upon the sand;
But not with these expire the sacred flame
Of virtue, or the good man's awful name.

HOWARD! it matters not, that far away From Albion's peaceful shore thy bones decay. Him it might please, by whose sustaining hand Thy steps were led through many a distant land, Thy long and last abode should there be found, Where many a savage nation prowls around; That Virtue from the hallow'd spot might rise, And pointing to the finish'd sacrifice, Teach to the roving Tartar's savage clan Lessons of love, and higher aims of man. The hoary chieftain, who thy tale shall hear, Pale on thy grave shall drop his falt'ring spear; The cold, unpitying Cossack thirst no more To bathe his burning falchion deep in gore, Relentless to the cry of carnage speed, Or urge o'er gasping heaps his panting steed!

Nor vain the thought that fairer hence may rise New views of life, and wider charities.

Far from the bleak Riphean mountains hoar,
From the cold Don, and Wolga's wand'ring shore,
From many a shady forest's lengthening tract,
From many a dark-descending cataract,
Succeeding tribes shall come, and o'er the place,
Where sleeps the general friend of human race,
Instruct their children what a debt they owe,
Speak of the man who trod the paths of woe;
Then bid them to their native woods depart,
With new-born virtue aching at their heart.

When o'er the sounding Euxine's stormy tides In hostile pomp the Turk's proud navy rides, Bent on the frontiers of th' Imperial Czar, To pour the tempest of vindictive war; If onward to those shores they haply steer, Where, HOWARD, thy cold dust reposes near, Whilst o'er the wave the silken pennants stream And seen far off the golden crescents gleam, Amid the pomp of war, the swelling breast Shall feel a still unwonted awe impress'd,

Instruct their Children what a Debt they owe,
Speak of the man who trod the paths of woe: - tage 70.
Published Feb. 1.1798, by C. Dilly – Cadell. I avies, indon:
and R. Cruttwell, Brath.