 | The miscellaneous essays and occasional writings of Francis Hopkinson, Esq |  |
80
THE ODE.
Recitative.
Why looks the visionary maid so sad,
Ah! why, Britannia, thus in sable clad?
Oh! speak the cause from whence such sorrows flow,
That, by partaking, we may ease thy woe.
Ah! why, Britannia, thus in sable clad?
Oh! speak the cause from whence such sorrows flow,
That, by partaking, we may ease thy woe.
Air.
Lend, lend your tears, ye virgin train,
Let music swell her softest strain!
Oh! make the solemn dirge resound,
And spread religious sorrow round—
With me the deep-felt loss deplore—
My son! my son! is now no more!
Let music swell her softest strain!
Oh! make the solemn dirge resound,
And spread religious sorrow round—
With me the deep-felt loss deplore—
My son! my son! is now no more!
Chorus.
Then let the solemn dirge begin,
Whilst we our voices join,
To swell the tend'rest note of grief,
And mix our woe with thine.
Whilst we our voices join,
To swell the tend'rest note of grief,
And mix our woe with thine.
81
Air.
The glorious sun, Britannia's king,
Withdraws his golden light:
His setting ray
Glides swift away,
And yields to conq'ring night.
Withdraws his golden light:
His setting ray
Glides swift away,
And yields to conq'ring night.
Down in the deep and dreary tomb
His mortal part must lie;
And ev'ry bell
Now tolls his knell,
Tears flow from every eye.
His mortal part must lie;
And ev'ry bell
Now tolls his knell,
Tears flow from every eye.
Far o'er the wild and wat'ry waste,
Hear the loud cannons roar;
'Till winds convey
The sounds away,
That die along the shore.
Hear the loud cannons roar;
'Till winds convey
The sounds away,
That die along the shore.
But, lo! his sainted soul ascends
High thro' th' etherial road;
And Briton's sighs
Like incense rise,
To waft him to his God.
High thro' th' etherial road;
And Briton's sighs
Like incense rise,
To waft him to his God.
How soft the pow'r of music to assuage
The pangs of grief! like balm of costly price
Pour'd o'er the streaming wound. Since then, my friend,
Due tribute has been paid to royal worth,
82
Our fleeting hours in unavailing sorrow.
See! by the bounty of all ruling heav'n,
Another George to happy Britons giv'n:
Gay youth and glory beam around his throne,
And glad Britannia claims him as her own.
Let us embrace what heav'n in kindness gives,
Since George the Second in the Third still lives.
| The miscellaneous essays and occasional writings of Francis Hopkinson, Esq | |