University of Virginia Library


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A POETICAL ESSAY, In MANNER of ELEGY, On the Lamented DEATH Of His late MAJESTY, KING GEORGE II.

Pallida Mors œquo pulsat pede pauperum tabernas,
Regumque turres
Hor.


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The Author, convinced of his Inequality to the Task, but affected with the melancholy Theme, humbly addresses the Public, in Hopes that, by his Choice of a Subject, he will, in some Measure, make Amends for any Deficiencies in the few following Stanzas.


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England! thy Genius vested like Dispair,
With loud Distress alarms the chalkey Shore:
Britons! he cries, and rends his hoary Hair,
Britons! Your much-lov'd Monarch is no more!
The Sea-Gods from their Pearl-Embroider'd Beds,
Who to great GEORGE the Green Dominion gave,
No longer lift their Coral, Crowned Heads,
But dive, distress'd, beneath the trembling Wave.
Hark, how the Winds, erst bounteous to his Will,
That bore his thund'ring Fleets to Gallia's Shore,
Pause,—for a While, pathetically still,
Then let their Sorrows burst in pealey Roar.

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The Nymphs that in the sacred Groves preside,
Where Britain's conquering Oaks eternal spring,
In their embrown'd Retreats their Sorrows hide,
And silent mourn the venerable King.
Tenants of Liberty, on Britain's Plain,
With Flocks enrich'd, a vast unnumber'd Store!
'Tis gone, the mighty GEORGE's golden Reign,
Your Pan, your great Protector is no more!
The British Swains, e'er whiles a blithsome Throng,
No more in Laughter's Band, to revel seen!
No more the Shepherd tunes his chearful Song,
Or dances, sportful on the dew-dress'd Green.
Beauty, no more, the Toy of Fashion wears,
(So late by Love's designful Labor drest)
But from her Brow the lustred Diamond tears,
And, with the sable Cypress, veils her Breast.

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Religion, lodg'd high on her pious Pile,
Laments the fading State of Crowns below;
While Melancholy fills, the vaulted Isle,
With the slow Music of heart-wounding Woe.
See, the detestful Owl, ill-omen'd rise!
Dragg'd, by Dispair, from her sequester'd Cell;
And, by the Discord of shrill-shrieking Cries,
Doubling the Horrors of the deep-ton'd Bell.
The Choral Muses droop! their Harps unstrung,
The Lutes and Lawrel-Wreaths neglected fall!
Commerce—Bestill'd her many-nation'd Tongue,
Whilom so busy in her bustling Hall!
Behold the Virtues ranged, a sorrowing Band!
They mourn their King with grief-dejected Eyes,
See Art and Sister Science, weeping stand!
For ah! rheir Patron, their Defender dies!

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On Conquests Cheek, see how the Roses fail!
Greif makes alas! the best of Blossoms bow!
And Honor's Fire Etherial, burns but pale,
That erst beam'd glorious on our GEORGE's Brow.
The dreary Paths of unrelenting Fate,
Must Monarchs mix'd with Common Mortals try!
Is there no Refuge for the Good and Great!
And must the Gracious and the Godlike die!
Must gilded Courts be changed for Horror's Cave!
And sceptred Kings, who keep the World in Awe,
Conquer'd by Time, and the unpitying Grave,
Scarce save their Laurels from its rig'rous Law.
Search where fell Carnage raged with Rigor steel'd,
Where Slaughter, like the rapid Lightning, ran;
And say, when you've bewept the blood-stain'd Field,
Which is the Monarch? which the common Man?

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The Macedonian Monarch, wise and good,
Bade (when the Morning's rosey Reign began)
Courtiers should call, as round his Couch they stood,
“PHILIP, remember thou'rt no more than Man.
“Tho' Glory spread thy Name from Pole to Pole,
“Tho' thou art merciful, and brave, and just,
“PHILIP reflect thour't posting to the Goal,
“Where Mortals mix in undistinguish'd Dust.”
What then avails Ambition's wide-stretch'd Wing!
The Schoolman's Page, or Pride of Beauty's Bloom!
The Crape-Clad Hermit, and the Rich-Rob'd King,
Mingle promiscuous in the levelling Tomb.

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So SALADIN, for Arts and Arms renown'd,
The Syrians and Egyptians both subdu'd!
Returning, with imperial Triumphs crown'd,
Sigh'd, when the perishable Pomp he view'd.
And as he rode, high on his regal Car,
In all the Purple Pride of Conquest drest,
Conspicuous o'er the Trophies gain'd in War,
Plac'd on a pendant Spear his Burial Vest.
While thus the Herald cry'd, “This Son of Pow'r,
“This Saladin to whom the Nation bow'd,
“May, in the Space of a revolving Hour,
“Boast of no other Spoil but yonder Shroud.”

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Can the deep Statesman, skill'd in great Design,
Save, for the smallest Space, precarious Breath?
Or the tun'd Follower of the Sacred Nine,
Sooth, with his Melody, the Tyrant Death?
No! tho' the Palace bar her golden Gate,
Or Monarchs plant Ten Thousand Guards around,
Unerring, and unseen, the Shaft of Fate,
Strikes the devoted Victim to the Ground.
If in the Tent retir'd, or Battle's Rage,
Brittania's Sighs shall reach great FRED'RIC's Ear,
He'll drop the Sword, or shut the Sophic Page,
And pensive pay the tributary Tear
Then shall the Monarch weigh the Moral Thought,
(As he laments the Parent, Friend, Ally)
The solemn Truth, by sage Reflection taught,
That, Spight of Glory, FRED'RIC's Self must die.

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Crowns, like the Glow-Worms, scarce distinguish'd Light,
For a short Moment glance their twinkling Fires:
But there's a deathless Wreath, divinely bright,
Whose, more than Diamond-Lustre, ne'er expires.
Such is the Starry Meed that Virtue tied,
With her own Hands on GEORGE's gracious Brow:
Eternal shall its golden Beams Abide,
Tho' the bright Sun should from his Orbit bow.
Nor is the sacred Gift to Kings confined,
The Wretch, to Fortune, Friends, and Fame unknown,
Shall if sweet Piety adorn his Mind;
Mount to the highest Step of Glory's Throne.
The Parent's Face Apelles prudent hides,
While Death devours the Darling of his Age:
Nature, the pencil'd Stroke of Art derides,
When Grief distracts with agonizing Rage.

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Then let the Muse her sablest Curtain spread,
By Sorrow taught her nerveless Power to know:
When Nations cry, their King, their Parent's dead,
The rest is dumb, unutterable Woe!
Mercy, Co-partner of Great GEORGE's Throne,
Through the embrighted Air ascendant flies,
Duteous, the Peace bestowing Maid is flown
To smooth his halcion Progress to the Skies
But see a sacred Radiance beams around!
That with returning Hope a People chears!
Behold yon Youth with Grace Imperial Crown'd,
How awful! yet how lovely in his Tears!
Mark how his Bosom heaves the filial Sigh!
He droops distress'd like a fair Frost chill'd Flower,
Till Glory from her radiant Sphere on high,
Hails him to hold the Reins of Regal Power.

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The sainted Sire to Realms of Bliss removed,
Like the famed Phœnix from his Pyre shall spring,
Another GEORGE as Gracious, as Beloved,
As Good, and Glorious as the Parent King.
FINIS.
 

The Hall of Commerce, the Royal-Exchange.

Philip, King of Macedon, the Father of Alexander the Great, appointed the Pages of his Chamber, to remind him every Morning that notwithstanding his Glory and Power, he was no more than a mere Mortal Man.

Saladin, a famous Eastern Emperor, in his triumphant Return from the most remarkable Conquests, had a Shirt carried before him, while Proclamation was made, That the Victor, after all his Glory, could lay real Claim to nothing but that wretched Linen to wrap his Body in for the Tomb.

Frederic, King of Prussia.

Apelles finding it impossible to express with his Pencil, the Distress of Agamemnon, while his Daughter Iphigenia was offered as a Sacrafice, painted him with a Veil spread over his Face.