PETERSFIELD.
LINES ON MR. RICHARD COBDEN
With silence pause upon this sacred spot,
And think of him who calmly sleeps beneath,
By whom remembered, or by whom forgot,
Thy honor’d country plants the sacred wreath.
Thy humble birth a simple farmer’s boy
Like Burns the fortune of the world to try;
Industrious limbs the bloom of health enjoy,
And youthful vices ever learn to fly.
In plain blue frock, and country pelted shoes,
How often hast thou drove they team a field;
Perhaps in tattered garb or mended hose,
The roughest glebe to sturdy hands must yield.
Born for thy Country’s honour and her good,
Her pride with nations nobly to secure,
A little spot upon the ocean’s flood,
’Tis trade and commerce must her wealth ensure.
She boasts herself of no extended plains,
No purple vineyards blushing to the sun;
And small the portions of her happy swains,
And for her millions small when all is done.
Had Heaven permitted but a longer reign,
And England known the greatness of thy mind,
Told noble statesmen that they were but men,
And lived the common farther of mankind.
No titled means or contracted soul,
Did mark the path the worthy patriot trod,
His stern unyielding mind—his marked control,
Must mete the favour of an equal God.
Alas! thour’t gone to pure and happy skies,
No venial statesmen there disturb thy breast;
May they bereaved to future honours rise,
And generations live to call thee blest.
R. E., Petersfield.
See also 24-Aug-1846 & 4-Mar-1852