Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Language is faint true sorrow to express,
To speak the passion of a wounded soul:
The more we suffer we complain the less,
The rill flows babbling, deep streams silent roll.

The head with mute expressive pity mov'd,
The big tear lab'ring in your people's eye,
Too speakingly proclaim, how much belov'd,
Dear prince, you liv'd, how much lamented die.

In deep suspence, such solemn scenes around,
I stand, where first to touch the lyre of woe;
As leaning on his ax, where trees abound,
The woodman doubts where first to fix the blow.

Oh princess—yet at that unhappy name
Why does my pen th' ungrateful task deny?
Why spreads a dampy chilness o'er my frame,
And tears unbidden croud into my eye?

So tender is the theme, the muses mourn,
And fear to speak, what speaking they must wrong;
For as no words her virtues can adorn,
So is her grief beyond the reach of song.

Oh for the plaintive voice, the mournful tone
Soft-trilling thro' the silence of the night
Of hapless Philomel, when all alone,
On bared bough, she wails her widow'd plight:

Then cou'd my soul in soft complainings tell,
How Frederick lov'd, and how that love was blest:
How dear he liv'd, how dear—and when he fell,
Ah me—what anguish pierc'd Augusta's breast!

Theirs was no common love, no common flame,
Not from the wanton heat of passion sprung,
Whose joy is transient, and whose bliss a name;
Sense tied the knot, which tenderness made strong:

Built on esteem a mutual friendship rose,
Time saw that friendship constantly improve:
And friendship so refin'd, soon fondness grows,
Soon softly mellows into firmest love.

Such, such was their's; but when a beauteous race
Their parent's triumph, and their nation's care,
Was giv'n indulgent to their dear embrace,
How was their mutual love cemented there!

Oh to behold 'em as they pass'd along
With their sweet babes, the lov'd and loving pair:
Their bliss was painted in the gazing throng,
Each eye proclaim'd their happiness sincere.

Britons, alas, no more shall ye survey,
With longing looks, the lovely glorious sight:
Heav'n has too soon your favourite snatch'd away,
The husband's mirror, and the realm's delight.

Who shall presume heaven's awful ways to scan,
Or reason of its dealings here below?
Mysterious are its holy ways to man:
That God is good, is all we need to know.

Weep not, fair princess, nor thy fortune blame,
Some great reward in future times is thine:
From earth set free, above yon starry frame
Thou with thy God and with thy prince shalt shine.

Wait then resign'd the hallow'd will of heav'n,
Assuage thy tears, and bid thy grief subside,—
Alas!—how easy consolation's giv'n,
When swells not full the heart with sorrow's tide!

Tho' much I feel, how deep thy grief to mine!
How vain the thought to bid thee cease to mourn!
Thou art a mortal: and to feel is thine;
It is enough, thy sorrows can be borne.

Where shall thy prattling race their father see,
So fond, so tender; hapless widow, where?
Sportive no more shall they ascend his knee,
Or lisp their little stories in his ear?

Oft shall thy bosom heave unbidden sighs,
Oft down thy cheeks shall steal the gushing tears,
When some fond infant asks, with streaming eyes,
Why now no more his dear papa appears?

And yet there is who to the name of son
Is now no stranger: for, in years tho' green,
Uncommon sense the blooming prince has shown,
Britannia's glory in his youth is seen.

Weep, weep, young prince, for thou hast lost a sire,
Beneath whose hand in virtue thou hadst grown;
Let then his glories all thy bosom fire,
And make his ev'ry excellence thy own.

Hear thy fond mother tenderly relate
Those manly virtues ev'ry Briton lov'd:
Then weep thy country's loss and father's fate,
And from his great example rise improv'd.

So when thy grandsire shall to death's sure hand
At length submit, and double England's woe,
Another George may sooth the suff'ring land,
And bring his great forefathers back to view.

But, gracious heav'n, if Britain be thy care,
Nor yet our crimes have turn'd thy favour hence,
Awhile our monarch to our wishes spare,
At once his Nation's glory and defence.

Far from his bed each torturing pang remove,
And doubly fortify his lab'ring soul:
Tho' much he feels, let not the father's love
The father of his country's love controul.

Be his the mighty task his realms to guard,
And “settle sure succession in his line;”
Be ours, great king, thy goodness to reward
With prayers incessant: be our hearts all thine!

There are perchance who wonder I refuse
Aloft to blazon Frederick's lov'd fame:
That were a task wou'd well delight the muse,
For much she joys to dwell upon his name.

But what avails it, Britons, to relate
His public virtues, and domestic worth?
Each Briton knew them, each laments a fate
That tore such matchless virtues from our earth.

Weep all the people when a tyrant dies!
Mourn for a worthless name the general throng!
No, princess, no:—more speak thy people's eyes
Than all the music of applauding song.

What tho' in tented fields, and deeds of war,
Where wide destruction claims the laurel crown,
He never shone, nor drove Bellona's car,
Rattling o'er ruin to procure renown:

A nobler sphere his milder virtues chose,
Another Numa, born to bless mankind;
To conquer in humanity he rose,
And left the glorious madnesses behind.

In wide benevolence's ample plain,
He toil'd to make each social art his own,
That Britain might with joy behold the train
Of truth and glory basking round his throne.

But what avail'd his kind parental care,
Or studious labour for his country's weal?
Heav'n deign'd not to bestow such favours here,
And shew'd the more, that we the more might feel.

Severest scourge upon our guilty land,
Whose sapp'd foundations scarce their burden bear,
Loaded with guilt the tott'ring structures stand,
Nod to their fall, and daily ruin fear.

And lo—how cast aside her orbed shield,
Whereon right plain in speaking brass is view'd,
Her ev'ry son, who dar'd in glory's field
Each honest danger for his country's good:

On the bare ground Britannia lies along,
And leans her head all mournful on her hand,
While clad in sable, melancholy throng
Weeping around fair virtue and her band.

The muses too in silent sort draw nigh,
And pensive with the sorrowing maid recline;
On their soft lutes the strains unfinish'd die,
And to dumb grief they solemnly resign.

Parental fondness drooping sits aside,
With conjugal affection in his hand,
Bends his full eyes expressive on his bride,
Looks their sad loss, and wails the widow'd land.

Freedom, whose adamantine bosom knows
From common sufferings nought to touch her breast,
Wild in her sorrow, gives a loose to woes,
For Frederick lov'd her, and she lov'd him best.

Commerce at distance rears her heavy head,
Her sable flag hangs heedless on her knee,
Neglected at her feet her glories spread,
Neglected droops her empire of the sea:

Oft wails she—“Wherefore do I fondly blame
“For that a while my sons thy loss shall feel?
“Beneath thee nurtur'd, how had rose my fame,
“For well thou knew'st my worth to Britain's weal.”

Thus as she spoke, methought the western sky
Gay streaks of splendid light illumin'd round;
When, clad in snowy robes, descend from high
Bright forms, with gold and aramanthus crown'd;

A car, immortal lustre darting, shone,
Borne in the bosom of a fleecy cloud,
When from the north a personage came on,
Divine his look, divine the circling crowd:

Superior glory beam'd from out his eyes:
He mov'd;—the splendid car advanc'd along,
Where as he enter'd, forthwith to the skies
The flashing glory all triumphant sprung.

When 'midst soft melody th' angelic choir
Sooth'd with these accents each desponding breast,
“Weep not for him, whom heav'nly joys require,
“Bewail not Frederick, Britons, he is blest.”

Our present most amiable Sovereign.