ON THE DEATH OF GEORGE II.
Of cypress deign, celestial muse, to sing;
To plaintive numbers tune the trembling string,
And soothe the gen'ral grief.—
The voice of joy 's no more,
On Albion's sadden'd shore:
He 's gone—Britannia's royal chief!
From the north to southern pole,
From the farthest orient floods
To Hesperia's savage woods,
Swelling tides of sorrow roll:
Nor wonder; all an ample share
Partook, through boundless climes, of his paternal care.
Whate'er the muse's mournful lays can do,
And more, blest shade! to thy loved name is due.
Under thy gentle sway,
Religion, heaven-born fair,
In her own native air,
Refulgent shone in golden day:
Virtue, science, liberty,
Blooming sisters, wreathed with bays,
Grateful sung their patron's praise:
Commerce, o'er the broad-back'd sea,
Extending far on floating isles,
Imported India's wealth, and rich Peruvian spoils.
Let Rome her Julius and Octavius boast;
What both at Rome, George was on Albion's coast.
An olive-wreath his brow,
Majestic, ever wore;
Unless by hostile power
Long urged, and then the laurel bough.
Faithful bards, in epic verse,
Vict'ries more than Julius won,
And exploits, before undone,
George the Hero, shall rehearse:
While softer notes each tuneful swain
Shall breathe from oaten pipe, of George's peaceful reign.
But, ah! while on the glorious past we dwell,
Enwrapt in silken thought, our bosoms swell
With pleasing ecstacy,
Forgetful of our wo.
—Shall tears forbear to flow?
Or cease to heave the deep-fetch'd sigh?
Flow, ye tears, forever stream;
Sighs, to whisp'ring winds complain;
Winds, the sadly-solemn strain
Waft, and tell the mournful theme.
But what, alas! can tears or sighs?
What could, has ceased to be; the spirit mounts the skies.
With sympathetic wo, thy noontide ray,
Phœbus, suspend; ye clouds, obscure the day;
Her face let Cynthia veil,
Thick darkness spread her wing,
And the night-raven sing,
While Britons their sad fate bewail.
Sacred flood, whose crystal tide,
Gently gliding, rolls adown
Fast by, once, the blissful town,
Thames! with pious tears supply'd,
Swell high, and tell the vocal shore
And jovial mariner, their glory's now no more!
But stop, my plaintive muse: lo! from the skies
What sudden radiance strikes our wond'ring eyes?
As had the lab'ring sun,
From black and dismal shades,
Which not a ray pervades,
Emerging, with new lustre shone.
In the forehead of the east,
See the gilded morning star,
Of glad day the harbinger:
Sighing, now, and tears are ceased:
Still George survives; his virtues shine
In him, who sprung alike from Brunswick's royal line.
