Posthumous Works of Dr. George Sewell ... To which are added Poems on Several Occasions, Published in his Life-Time |
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VERSES TO Her Royal Highness THE PRINCESS of WALES.
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 | Posthumous Works of Dr. George Sewell |  |
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VERSES TO Her Royal Highness THE PRINCESS of WALES.
Occasion'd by the Death of the Young Prince.
Fair
Royal Mourner! hear the Pious Muse
Condole that Sorrow which none dare accuse.
Condole that Sorrow which none dare accuse.
Those Tears which from the Source of Nature flow,
To publick Losses we more justly owe:
Now, not to Grieve, were Treason, and would prove,
Not want of Pity, but our Country's Love.
To publick Losses we more justly owe:
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Not want of Pity, but our Country's Love.
O Fairest Light! O lost in early Morn!
Child of a Nations Wishes: British-Born!
How at Thy Birth (as when some new-form'd Star
Shines, the pure Arbiter of guilty War)
Britannia hop'd to see her Factions cease,
And drew Presages of her Future Peace!
On Thee the rugged Brow of Party smil'd,
And look'd, and lov'd the Reconciling Child:
Thy Cradle join'd all disagreeing Minds;
So the rough Stones the softer Cement binds.
Child of a Nations Wishes: British-Born!
How at Thy Birth (as when some new-form'd Star
Shines, the pure Arbiter of guilty War)
Britannia hop'd to see her Factions cease,
And drew Presages of her Future Peace!
On Thee the rugged Brow of Party smil'd,
And look'd, and lov'd the Reconciling Child:
Thy Cradle join'd all disagreeing Minds;
So the rough Stones the softer Cement binds.
Fond English-Mothers, full of English-Joy,
Stood near, and gaz'd with Wonder on the Boy;
Then thinking on their Own, at once confest,
Their Pride diminish'd, and their Country blest.
‘Happy! they cry'd, the Womb from whence He sprung!
‘Happy the lovely Neck on which He hung!
‘New Joy and Rapture ev'ry Bosom Fire,
‘But most transport the Mother and the Sire:
‘The Mother and the Sire still Fruitful Live,
‘Long, very long, such Yearly Blessings Give!
Stood near, and gaz'd with Wonder on the Boy;
Then thinking on their Own, at once confest,
Their Pride diminish'd, and their Country blest.
‘Happy! they cry'd, the Womb from whence He sprung!
‘Happy the lovely Neck on which He hung!
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‘But most transport the Mother and the Sire:
‘The Mother and the Sire still Fruitful Live,
‘Long, very long, such Yearly Blessings Give!
Here, old in War, the hardy Soldier came,
Saw his Eyes lighten with a Hero's Flame.
Such He remember'd were the lucky Signs,
And such the Promise of his Father's Loins,
When Britain's Empire could not be Divin'd,
And Audenard was only then design'd.
Saw his Eyes lighten with a Hero's Flame.
Such He remember'd were the lucky Signs,
And such the Promise of his Father's Loins,
When Britain's Empire could not be Divin'd,
And Audenard was only then design'd.
But Oh! when to a Pitch our Wishes rise,
Pride casts a Mist before our guilty Eyes:
We think not what we merit, but in Haste
Grasp the new Joy, and use it all to Waste.
Thus for our Guilt the Royal Infant bleeds;
The Royal Mother weeps for British Deeds.
Unworthy of the Flow'r, as soon as bloom'd,
Heav'n its own Gift in Anger has resum'd;
Just shew'd him to the World, then snatch'd him hence,
To teach us how to prize Another Prince.
Were not our Crimes all black, of deepest Grain,
The pious Mother had not su'd in vain.
The Fair Attendants on her Woe declare,
How the Saint wrestled with Her God in Pray'r!
How humbly Mournful! how intensely True,
On Wings of Fire Her Soul's Devotion flew!
How watch'd the tedious Night in lengthen'd Sighs!
And saw the Morning Sun in Tears arise.
The Gates of Mercy still remain un-storm'd,
The Mother's and the Christian Part perform'd.
She must Resign!—and so She patient will,
Yet keep the Mother and the Christian still.
Pride casts a Mist before our guilty Eyes:
We think not what we merit, but in Haste
Grasp the new Joy, and use it all to Waste.
Thus for our Guilt the Royal Infant bleeds;
The Royal Mother weeps for British Deeds.
Unworthy of the Flow'r, as soon as bloom'd,
Heav'n its own Gift in Anger has resum'd;
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To teach us how to prize Another Prince.
Were not our Crimes all black, of deepest Grain,
The pious Mother had not su'd in vain.
The Fair Attendants on her Woe declare,
How the Saint wrestled with Her God in Pray'r!
How humbly Mournful! how intensely True,
On Wings of Fire Her Soul's Devotion flew!
How watch'd the tedious Night in lengthen'd Sighs!
And saw the Morning Sun in Tears arise.
The Gates of Mercy still remain un-storm'd,
The Mother's and the Christian Part perform'd.
She must Resign!—and so She patient will,
Yet keep the Mother and the Christian still.
The Patriarch thus, when Heav'n reclaim'd aloud
The Son it gave, the destin'd Off'ring vow'd,
And, faithful to his God, in sad Obedience Bow'd.
The Son it gave, the destin'd Off'ring vow'd,
And, faithful to his God, in sad Obedience Bow'd.
| Posthumous Works of Dr. George Sewell | |