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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ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF HIS MAJESTY George the Third. |
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 | Poems, on sacred and other subjects |  |
ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF HIS MAJESTY George the Third.
Green spring returns to Britain's sea-girt shore,
And birds again resume the cheerful lay,
But Britain's gen'rous sons now deep deplore
Their venerable sovereign, torn away
By death, who rules with unrelenting sway,
Nor spares the monarch more than peasant poor;
And mighty George sleeps 'neath his kindred clay
In the grim vault of death, where, all demure,
The conq'ring tyrant reigns with black and sullen lour.
And birds again resume the cheerful lay,
But Britain's gen'rous sons now deep deplore
Their venerable sovereign, torn away
By death, who rules with unrelenting sway,
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And mighty George sleeps 'neath his kindred clay
In the grim vault of death, where, all demure,
The conq'ring tyrant reigns with black and sullen lour.
His was the fate, while in the morn of life,
In splendour bright, to mount the regal throne;
And his the lot to wail incessant strife,
While, deep, his nation under war did groan:
Yet heaven, propitious, left him not to moan
Beneath the sorrows of his country's woe;
But, in that way mysterious and unknown,
Bereft his mind of reason—thus the throe
Intense of weeping grief ne'er from his soul could flow.
In splendour bright, to mount the regal throne;
And his the lot to wail incessant strife,
While, deep, his nation under war did groan:
Yet heaven, propitious, left him not to moan
Beneath the sorrows of his country's woe;
But, in that way mysterious and unknown,
Bereft his mind of reason—thus the throe
Intense of weeping grief ne'er from his soul could flow.
Though sad be life, when barr'd the gates of sense,
And strangely wild be lunacy's abode,
Yet fancy oft dispels the gloom, though dense,
And shows her florid fields for reason's road:
Such regions fair our fated monarch trod,
Nor seem'd perplex'd throughout th' enchanting scene,
Till death, obsequious to the will of God,
Wide scatter'd all the fairy visions sheen—
Changed for that land, we trust, unknown to care and teen.
And strangely wild be lunacy's abode,
Yet fancy oft dispels the gloom, though dense,
And shows her florid fields for reason's road:
Such regions fair our fated monarch trod,
Nor seem'd perplex'd throughout th' enchanting scene,
Till death, obsequious to the will of God,
Wide scatter'd all the fairy visions sheen—
Changed for that land, we trust, unknown to care and teen.
How bless'd the change! though here a monarch great,
Whose voice gave law to Europe's regions wide;
Whose arms, victorious, waved the flag of fate
On Mars' red fields and Neptune's rolling tide:
How bless'd the change! if, by the verdant side
Of life's pure stream, the victor's crown he wear,
Wreath'd with the palm of triumph, while do glide
The dulcet strains of angels on the ear,
To Him who ransom'd man by suff'rings so severe!
Whose voice gave law to Europe's regions wide;
Whose arms, victorious, waved the flag of fate
On Mars' red fields and Neptune's rolling tide:
How bless'd the change! if, by the verdant side
Of life's pure stream, the victor's crown he wear,
Wreath'd with the palm of triumph, while do glide
The dulcet strains of angels on the ear,
To Him who ransom'd man by suff'rings so severe!
In vain the human character we scan,
If pure perfection our criterion be,
Since every act and thought of fallen man
Deep tinged with guilt obscene we feel and see;
Yet, in the rank of life he moved, how free
From vice imperial was our gracious king;
Revered by all who virtue love was he;
And Britain's sons his mournful requiem sing,
While mem'ry round his tomb hails ever-blooming spring.
If pure perfection our criterion be,
Since every act and thought of fallen man
Deep tinged with guilt obscene we feel and see;
Yet, in the rank of life he moved, how free
From vice imperial was our gracious king;
Revered by all who virtue love was he;
And Britain's sons his mournful requiem sing,
While mem'ry round his tomb hails ever-blooming spring.
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Nigh threescore years he o'er our wondrous isle,
In troublous times, the golden sceptre sway'd,
And bold his daring subjects strove the while
Destruction's blow terrific to evade:
Each nerve was strung, and every effort made
To stand of tyranny the thund'ring shock;
And peace at length dispell'd war's gloomy shade,
When pride's enthralling chain in twain was broke,
And Europe was set free from slavery's galling yoke.
In troublous times, the golden sceptre sway'd,
And bold his daring subjects strove the while
Destruction's blow terrific to evade:
Each nerve was strung, and every effort made
To stand of tyranny the thund'ring shock;
And peace at length dispell'd war's gloomy shade,
When pride's enthralling chain in twain was broke,
And Europe was set free from slavery's galling yoke.
Now solemnly his passing-bell is rung,
Which from the feeling soul awakes the sigh;
And now the choir the lay of death hath sung,
That, thrilling keen, bedims the downcast eye;
And now, in death's strong fetters bound, doth lie
Britannia's king, pale, in the gelid urn,
Which speaks the solemn truth, that “all must die”—
Though pompous pride the rigid law should spurn,
And royalty superb, with hatred red, should burn!
Which from the feeling soul awakes the sigh;
And now the choir the lay of death hath sung,
That, thrilling keen, bedims the downcast eye;
And now, in death's strong fetters bound, doth lie
Britannia's king, pale, in the gelid urn,
Which speaks the solemn truth, that “all must die”—
Though pompous pride the rigid law should spurn,
And royalty superb, with hatred red, should burn!
| Poems, on sacred and other subjects | |