Lines On The Death Of Mr. Perceval.

A poem by Thomas Moore

In the dirge we sung o'er him no censure was heard,
Unembittered and free did the tear-drop descend;
We forgot, in that hour, how the statesman had erred,
And wept for the husband, the father and friend.

Oh! proud was the meed his integrity won,
And generous indeed were the tears that we shed,
When in grief we forgot all the ill he had done,
And tho' wronged by him living, bewailed him, when dead.

Even now if one harsher emotion intrude,
'Tis to wish he had chosen some lowlier state,
Had known what he was--and, content to be good,
Had ne'er for our ruin aspired to be great.

So, left thro' their own little orbit to move,
His years might have rolled inoffensive away;
His children might still have been blest with his love,
And England would ne'er have been curst with his sway.

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