LINES
ON
THE
DEATH
OF
WILLIAM
SOTHEBY
,
ESQ
.
LEARNING
and
fancy
were
combined
To
stimulate
his
manly
mind
;
Open
,
generous
and
acute
,
Steady
of
purpose
,
in
pursuit
Ardent
and
hopeful
;
all
the
while
In
child-like
ignorance
of
guile
.
There
are
who
say
that
envy
lurks
concealed
Where
genius
strives
,
by
slightest
traits
revealed
,
A
truth
,
if
truth
it
be
,
by
him
forgot
,
He
turned
his
eyes
away
and
saw
it
not
.
Success
in
others
,
frank
and
free
,
He
hailed
with
words
of
friendly
glee
.
Praise
given
to
them
he
could
not
feel
Did
aught
from
his
own
portion
steal
;
And
when
offence
,
designed
and
rude
,
Did
on
his
peaceful
path
obtrude
,
He
soon
forgave
the
paltry
pain
,
Nor
could
resentment
in
his
breast
retain
.
His
was
the
charity
of
right
goodwill
,
That
loves
,
confides
,
believes
and
thinks
no
ill
.
He
,
by
his
Saviour's
noble
precepts
led
,
Still
followed
what
was
right
with
heart
and
head
.
Religion
did
with
lofty
honour
dwell
Within
his
bosom's
sacred
cell
.
But
said
I
learning
did
in
him
agree
With
fancy
,
union
rare
!
how
could
it
be
?
His
eighteenth
year
beheld
him
fondly
cheering
His
warlike
steed
and
on
its
back
careering
.
A
gay
dragoon
with
spur
on
heel
,
And
brandished
blade
of
flashing
steel
;
With
wealth
at
will
,
the
world
before
him
,
To
go
where
whim
or
fashion
bore
him
.
No
friendly
tutor
by
his
side
,
His
academic
course
to
guide
.
No
classic
honours
to
invite
,
No
emulation
to
excite
.
But
,
in
default
of
these
,
his
soul
With
native
fire
supplied
the
whole
;
And
neither
Hall
nor
College
claim
Honour
from
him
whose
honoured
name
Shall
henceforth
with
the
highest
stand
,
The
most
efficient
scholars
of
our
land
.
To
him
what
meed
of
thanks
the
unlearned
owe
!
And
even
the
learned
,
who
best
his
merits
know
.
With
Homer
,
Virgil
,
Wieland
,
all
converse
Like
true
compatriots
in
his
pliant
verse
.
Pliant
but
elevated
,
graceful
,
bold
,
And
worthy
of
the
Bards
of
old
.
Nor
will
we
thanklessly
peruse
The
beauties
of
his
native
muse
,
Where
lofty
thoughts
and
feelings
sweet
,
And
moral
truths
commingling
meet
.
Where
fancy
spreads
her
absent
scene
,
The
flowery
mead
,
the
forest
green
;
The
plains
,
the
mountain
peaks
,
the
fanes
sublime
,
The
ruins
long
revered
of
Italy's
fair
clime
.
Yea
thanks
be
his
,
heart-given
and
kind
,
For
all
his
pen
has
left
behind
!
Though
bitters
in
his
cup
were
mixed
,
And
in
his
heart
sharp
arrows
fixed
,
The
current
of
his
life
ran
clear
;
With
virtuous
love
and
duteous
children
blest
,
He
journeyed
onward
to
the
Christian's
rest
,
And
happy
was
his
long
career
.
Social
and
joyous
to
the
end
,
Around
him
gathered
many
a
friend
,
Whose
minds
his
dear
remembrance
hold
,
Though
seventy
years
and
more
His
head
had
silvered
o'er
,
As
one
who
ne'er
was
old
.
Rejoicing
in
his
well-earned
fame
,
They
oft
repeat
his
honoured
name
,
And
as
their
thoughts
on
all
his
virtues
dwell
With
sorrow
,
cheered
and
sweet
,
bid
him
a
last
farewell
.