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He bids no flame in virtuous bosom rise;
He forms no plan of fond connubial bliss ; He reads no chaste consent in downcast eyes,
Nor thanks the trembler with a blameless kiss :
Unknown her virtues, undesired her charms,
Comes his unwilling bride to share his chains; Cold Policy conducts her to his arms,
And angry Love to bless the bed disdains. 'Tis his, to life when trembling wretches cling,
Whose worldly guilt despairs of heavenly bliss, With fatal breath the' untimely shaft to wing, And drive them shuddering down the dread
abyss : 'Tis his, to hear Contrition plead in vain,
To crush the last poor hope on mercy built; Yet still each sigh suppress, each tear restrain,
For grief is weakness, when to spare were guilt. Lo! for her culprit-husband kneels a wife!
Hark! for a child a father pours his prayer ! But Justice claims the felon's forfeit life,
And though he can, the monarch must not spare. He signs the bond of blood with pain severe ;
But does not Friendship then allay the smart ? Lends she not, while he mourns, her gracious ear?
Heals not her sympathy his wounded heart? Alas! No friend has he!-No tear he finds Mix with the stream which from his eyelid
rolls; He knows no intercourse of equal minds,
No kind expansion 'of congenial souls.
Or is there midst his followers one, whom beet
His partial eye and springing heart approve? Lock, royal wretch, the secret in your breast,
Nor bid distinction damn the man you love! The sovereign's friend is still the people's hate;
Whom kings still favour, subjects still revile.Rise, shade of Bute! thy mystic tale relate,
And say what blessings follow'd George's smile. Thou best canst tell,—none more for insult born,
Than him none branded more with public shame, Who bears the courtier's hate, the nation's scorn,
The favourite's office, and the minion's name.' Yet much a friend he needs, who born to reign
Is born the prey of Rapine, Vice, and Art; While Pomp and Power unite to fire his brain,
And Pride and Passion to mislead his heart. Lo! round his throne what hideous phantoms
throng! There wild Ambition bids his firebrands glare! There leering Flattery pours her siren song, The rank witch Luxury plants her nightshade
there! And there Suspicion rolls her eagle eye,
Weighs every word, and starts at every breath; And Treason there in robes of varying dye, Through paths mysterious guides the spectre
Death! Nor hope, fond monarch, by thy subjects bless’d,
Their grateful arms will guard thy valued life, Thy martial fame appal the assassin's breast,
Thy patriot virtue blunt his brandish'd knife:
Could Valour aught avail, or Public Love, France had not mournd Navarre's brave Henry
slain; If wit or beauty might compassion move,
The Rose of Scotland had not wept in vain.
Prayers of a people, voice of bright Renown,
Fair eyes and honied lips, ye vainly plead ; Doom'd to support that glittering curse, a crown,
Alike the Hero and the Beauty bleed!
- Yet mark these martial bands around me
placed; Observe my palace strictly watch'd and barr'd!' Vain man! in Friendship’s garb, with favour
graced, Fate lurks within, and mocks thy doubled guard !
Thy trusted servant, midst thy foes enroll'd,
To drug thy bowl employs his baleful art; Thy favourite mistress, bribed with foreign gold,
Waits but thy sleep to pierce thy doting heart:
And lo! thy darling son (most false of friends !)
By dire Ambition steeld against remorse, Tears from thy brow the crown, thy throne ascends,
Nor doubts to mount by trampling on thy corse.
Heard'st thou that sound ? Earth trembles ! meteors glare!
[verse! Red glows the moon, as charm'd by sorcerers' Ocean rolls back! fiends wing the lurid air!Knew'st thou that sound?-It was a Father's Yon crazy bark, so swift which flies the land, Thence came the word which Nature hears with
fright: High on the deck see royal STUART stand,
And fix on Albion's fading rocks his sight. From friends, from home, from all his soul holds
dear, In foreign climes to waste his closing day, Ambition's daughters drive this second Lear;
But no Cordelia wipes his tears away! Gushes the flood fast from the exile's lids;
Stream his gray locks wild in the winds of night; And now he rends them in despair, and bids Heaven's bitterest curse on his proud daughters
light! " Ye shames of Nature ! thus the monarch cries, " Your father loathes the hour when breath ye
drew! Whate'er my faults in angry Britain's eyes,
Usurping harpies, I have none to you. • And must your sire now stray from court to court
A royal beggar, bow'd with age and woes? Must foreign alms his irksome life support,
And foreign hands in death his limbs compose ? • Ah! while this last sad image fills your sight,
Does not accusing guilt your souls dismay? Cold as the moonbeams which direct my flight,
Deaf as the seas which bear my bark away, Say, can ye calmly still my anguish view,
And calmly still a father's faults condemn? Still are ye deaf?-When at thy feet they sue,
Judge of the world, be Thou as deaf to them!
'I curse ye, snakes! Alike of foe and friend May doubt and dread your cankering souls
devour; May civil broils your kingdom's bosom rend,
And foreign wars destroy your nation's flower; "On earth be wretched, and of heaven despair!
Changed be your good to ill, your bad to worse! And ne'er may child of yours survive to wear
That crown you purchased with your father's
He said! Heaven heard the prayer of regal woe!
Lo! Mary's hand a barren sceptre waves; While Anne but teems 'how mothers love' to know, See her sweet blossoms fall, and languish o'er
their graves t. While such the pangs which purple robes enfold, While griefs like these a sovereign's peace
devour, Should Hate or Envy follow those who hold
This sad preeminence of painful power? Far be from me such thoughts! My heart to stone Perhaps may change, while Hunger vainly
pleads; Mine ear may coldly list the maniac's moan, Nor my tears flow, though virtuous Beauty
* James the Second sent Queen Mary word that if she suffered herself to be crowned, he should leave her his dying curse.V. Dalrymple's Memoirs.
+ The queen attributes the loss of her children to the dethroning of her father; having been very sensibly touched by an affecting letter which he wrote to her before his death.Schrute's Letter to Bothmar, Sept. 29, 1713.