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92
Epitaphial Lines
[_]
Supposed to be inscribed near the Royal Vault at Windsor, after the Interment of Princess Charlotte and her Infant.
“The people lifted up their voice and wept! and they called the name of that place, Weepers.”
Judges, ii. 5.
If ever eye was dimm'd with pity's tear,
If ever bosom heaved with sorrow's moan,
Such eye should melt, such bosom sadden here,
Where royal stem and branch both, both, lie prone.
If ever bosom heaved with sorrow's moan,
Such eye should melt, such bosom sadden here,
Where royal stem and branch both, both, lie prone.
A mother, who a mother's joy ne'er knew,
A child, whose birth and death together met;
A sun, ere mid-day clouded from our view,
A star, that in its dawn of rising set.
A child, whose birth and death together met;
A sun, ere mid-day clouded from our view,
A star, that in its dawn of rising set.
And this—upon the closing of a day
When Mercy's arm, once shielding England's throne,
Preserv'd successors to the regal sway:
For two successions now a people groan.
When Mercy's arm, once shielding England's throne,
Preserv'd successors to the regal sway:
For two successions now a people groan.
Yes; every parent seems to mourn a child,
And every child a future monarch mourns:
Appalling is the blast that hath despoil'd,
And shrunk a nation's hope in twofold urns.
And every child a future monarch mourns:
Appalling is the blast that hath despoil'd,
And shrunk a nation's hope in twofold urns.
Oh! may it, like a thrilling bolt from heaven,
Pierce every heart with anguish for its sin;
That to the foolish, warning may be given,
And to the wise, more watchfulness within.
Pierce every heart with anguish for its sin;
That to the foolish, warning may be given,
And to the wise, more watchfulness within.
So may we all, with penitence to God,
With living faith in his redeeming Son,
Bend meekly low beneath the chastening rod,
And say—in all things, Lord, thy will be done!
With living faith in his redeeming Son,
Bend meekly low beneath the chastening rod,
And say—in all things, Lord, thy will be done!
For Thou art Wisdom,—therefore cannot err;
Art Goodness,—and inflict'st not willing pain:
Oh! grant our land no deadlier scourge incur,
By rendering even this—all, all in vain!
Art Goodness,—and inflict'st not willing pain:
Oh! grant our land no deadlier scourge incur,
By rendering even this—all, all in vain!
Nov. 20, 1817.
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