Poems, on sacred and other subjects and songs, humorous and sentimental: By the late William Watt. Third edition of the songs only--with additional songs |
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DIRGE ON THE DEATH OF Queen Caroline. |
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 | Poems, on sacred and other subjects |  |
DIRGE ON THE DEATH OF Queen Caroline.
Daughters of Britain, twine the cypress wreath
Around your polished brows like virgin snow;
And dress yourselves in sackloth, for beneath
The stroke of death lies Albion's glory low,
Queen Caroline, alas! the hapless child of woe!
Around your polished brows like virgin snow;
And dress yourselves in sackloth, for beneath
The stroke of death lies Albion's glory low,
Queen Caroline, alas! the hapless child of woe!
Hers was the soul, by dauntless virtue steel'd,
That braved the sternest shock of calumny!
Hers was the fortitude that hath reveal'd
The power of Christian magnanimity,
'Gainst hell's battalia fierce, in serried, deep array.
That braved the sternest shock of calumny!
Hers was the fortitude that hath reveal'd
The power of Christian magnanimity,
'Gainst hell's battalia fierce, in serried, deep array.
Who holds a heart that can unmoved see
Sweet innocence bereft of earthly joy?
Yet such there are in Britain's bounds, ah, me!
Who sought her every comfort to destroy,
And pleasure had in nought but what could her annoy.
Sweet innocence bereft of earthly joy?
Yet such there are in Britain's bounds, ah, me!
Who sought her every comfort to destroy,
And pleasure had in nought but what could her annoy.
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Curse on their ruthless and unmanly hearts,
Could blast the pleasure of a nation's love;
Come, retribution, mark their just deserts,
And hurl the bolt of vengeance from above
On their malignant heads who scathed the harmless dove.
Could blast the pleasure of a nation's love;
Come, retribution, mark their just deserts,
And hurl the bolt of vengeance from above
On their malignant heads who scathed the harmless dove.
Auspicious heaven beheld the quenchless ire
That burned within the bosom of each foe,
And granted in the end her warm desire
To bid adieu to every thing below,
When all was sabled o'er with persecution's woe.
That burned within the bosom of each foe,
And granted in the end her warm desire
To bid adieu to every thing below,
When all was sabled o'er with persecution's woe.
And now she's cross'd the dark eternal bourn,
Far from the grasp of enemies malign;
But mem'ry, bending o'er her gelid urn,
Shall shed the tear of sympathy benign
For Britain's injured Queen, the hapless Caroline.
Far from the grasp of enemies malign;
But mem'ry, bending o'er her gelid urn,
Shall shed the tear of sympathy benign
For Britain's injured Queen, the hapless Caroline.
| Poems, on sacred and other subjects | |