These now are past; long, long, ye fleeting years,
Pursue, with glory wing'd, your fated way,
Ere from the womb of time unwelcome peers
The dawn of that inevitable day,
When wrapt in shrouded clay their warmest friend
The widow'd virtues shall again deplore,
When o'er his urn in pious grief shall bend
His Britain, and bewail one patriot more;
For soon must thou, too soon! who spreadst abroad
Thy beaming emanations unconfin'd,
Doom'd, like some better angel sent of God
To scatter blessings over humankind,
Thou too must fall, O Pitt! to shine no more,
And tread these dreadful paths, a Faulkland trod before.