Epitaph On Sir Samuel Romilly
By Thomas Oldham
What, what can knowledge, virtue, fame, avail?
Crown they with happiness our mortal state?
Ah! no: what dire, unthought-of woes assail!
O wretched Man! thou art the slave of fate.
Lo! Romilly, in pangs, expiring lies!
His frantic hand O horror! doom'd to bleed?
His wakening Conscience opes her frighted eyes
'O God!' she groans, 'I disavow the deed.'
His guardian Angel sheds a pitying tear;
Then, fearless of the heavenly Judge's ire,
He leads his Spirit, blushing to appear,
Into the holy presence of her Sire.