| |
| OF 1 cypress deign, celestial muse, to sing; | |
| To plaintive numbers tune the trembling string, | |
| And soothe the gen’ral grief.— | |
| The voice of joy ’s no more, | |
| On Albion’s sadden’d shore: | 5 |
| He ’s gone—Britannia’s royal chief! | |
| From the north to southern pole, | |
| From the farthest orient floods | |
| To Hesperia’s savage woods, | |
| Swelling tides of sorrow roll: | 10 |
| Nor wonder; all an ample share | |
| Partook, through boundless climes, of his paternal care. | |
| |
| Whate’er the muse’s mournful lays can do, | |
| And more, blest shade! to thy loved name is due. | |
| Under thy gentle sway, | 15 |
| Religion, heaven-born fair, | |
| In her own native air, | |
| Refulgent shone in golden day: | |
| Virtue, science, liberty, | |
| Blooming sisters, wreathed with bays, | 20 |
| Grateful sung their patron’s praise: | |
| Commerce, o’er the broad-back’d sea, | |
| Extending far on floating isles, | |
| Imported India’s wealth, and rich Peruvian spoils. | |
| |
| Let Rome her Julius and Octavius boast; | 25 |
| What both at Rome, George was on Albion’s coast. | |
| An olive-wreath his brow, | |
| Majestic, ever wore; | |
| Unless by hostile power | |
| Long urged, and then the laurel bough. | 30 |
| Faithful bards, in epic verse, | |
| Vict’ries more than Julius won, | |
| And exploits, before undone, | |
| George the Hero, shall rehearse: | |
| While softer notes each tuneful swain | 35 |
| Shall breathe from oaten pipe, of George’s peaceful reign. | |
| |
| But, ah! while on the glorious past we dwell, | |
| Enwrapt in silken thought, our bosoms swell | |
| With pleasing ecstacy, | |
| Forgetful of our wo. | 40 |
| —Shall tears forbear to flow? | |
| Or cease to heave the deep-fetch’d sigh? | |
| Flow, ye tears, forever stream; | |
| Sighs, to whisp’ring winds complain; | |
| Winds, the sadly-solemn strain | 45 |
| Waft, and tell the mournful theme. | |
| But what, alas! can tears or sighs? | |
| What could, has ceased to be; the spirit mounts the skies. | |
| |
| With sympathetic wo, thy noontide ray, | |
| Phœbus, suspend; ye clouds, obscure the day; | 50 |
| Her face let Cynthia veil, | |
| Thick darkness spread her wing, | |
| And the night-raven sing, | |
| While Britons their sad fate bewail. | |
| Sacred flood, whose crystal tide, | 55 |
| Gently gliding, rolls adown | |
| Fast by, once, the blissful town, | |
| Thames! with pious tears supply’d, | |
| Swell high, and tell the vocal shore | |
| And jovial mariner, their glory’s now no more! | 60 |
| |
| But stop, my plaintive muse: lo! from the skies | |
| What sudden radiance strikes our wond’ring eyes? | |
| As had the lab’ring sun, | |
| From black and dismal shades, | |
| Which not a ray pervades, | 65 |
| Emerging, with new lustre shone. | |
| In the forehead of the east, | |
| See the gilded morning star, | |
| Of glad day the harbinger: | |
| Sighing, now, and tears are ceased: | 70 |
| Still George survives; his virtues shine | |
| In him, who sprung alike from Brunswick’s royal line. | |
