The Sun. — 1850-07-24 (London, England)

SIR ROBERT PEEL. BORN FEBRUARY 5, 1788. DIED JULY 2, 1850.  BY WILLIAM CHARLES RENT,  Aunton OF  He has perished in peace, yet departed in glory, The senator's robe, not the hero's, his shroud; No blood-streaming battles emblazon his story, Yet still with his fame the whole land rings alma In the slumber of death he is silent for ever; No more may his accents the nation rejoice— The nation who loved him, the nation who never Can hearken again to her orator's voice.  Oar dreams of his future have died in their splendour, Have died with his death, and are drowned with our tears; Alas I that one moment of anguish can render Thus vain and evasive the vision of years. Alas! that the genius a realm is lamenting Should thus have been quenched by the pangs of a day; Should tempt the DeA.oyer who knows no relenting, And sink with me sigh to the depths of decay. He sleeps—but the world is awake to his actions; He dies—but the age is alive to his worth : He failed—but in failing dismenaliered all factions; He ruled—and in ruling replenished the earth. And now o'er his tomb are the multitude mourning The loss of their statesman, their idol, their chief, The sense of whose greatness, their conclave adorning, Enhances their pride but to heighten their grief. Though lowly the fate that bereft him of power, Sublime was the sorrow that rose o'er his fall, When millions, dejected, awaited the hour Replete with calamities dreaded by all. Oh, dire were the portents and deep the emotion That threatened the State like a shadow of gloom, When Princes and People, with common devotion, At sundown and sunrise sought news of his doom. For well they remember'd the light of his reason Shone brightest when blackest events were combined, The horrors of famine, the terrors of treason But winning new store from the wealth of his mind. Their gratitude turned to the thought of that valour That shelter'd the islands when ills o'er them swept, And musing with awe when he lay in death's pallor, The senator trembled, the warrior wept.  No Minister ever more nobly presided O'er councils that never more needed control, And ne'er hath ambition more grandly derided; The baubles of empire that gleam in its goal. Was England's command on injustice dependent, His large and magnanimous heart chosa aright— He abandoned to foes his position resplendent, And yielded to weakness the wand of his might. In opulence lull'd, yet his life was devoted To watch o'er his country and toil in her cause; Though leisure allured him, his aim was denoted By drudgery pass'd in amending her laws. A passion for letters and science, uniting Their blandishments, sought to decoy him in vain— Him—the gentle and brave—only stern when requiting The crafts of intrigue and the wiles of chicane. Yet, brilliant his acts of political duty, More brilliant the deeds of his private career, When for virtues, more sweet in their homelier beauty, Most loved the great man, some might only revere. Oh ! solemn the proof of his generous feeling Drawn forth from its stealth by a blood-stained despair, The suicide's hand, in its anguish revealing His nature, still tender, when ravaged by care.  The People he loved more than Place, ever yearning To govern them wisely, their good to ensure; And oft from his measures the nation was learning How, reared 'mid the rich, he yet lived for the poor; Their homes were the scenes of his fond asp ration, The cottager's blessing his brightest reward, More prised than the pomp of a dukedom's creation, Than wealth or nobility gained by the sword. Then leave, as he wished, his frail ashes to moulder Beneath the old fane near the scenes of his youth ; Though humble its shade, nobler structure were colder To him who viewed death through the spectrum of truth. No pageants sepulchral accumulate round him The symbols of pride that he spurned on life's shore; More grandly his great recollections surround him= The Patriot Chief whom the People deplore. London, 9th July, 1850.