Shall unrelenting rocks forbear to bleed,
While I proclaim the great AUGUSTUS dead !
AUGUSTUS ah ! my muse, I feel the sound
Rush thro' my soul, and all its pow'rs confound ;
Swift tow'rds my heart unusual horror climbs,
And strange convulsions seize my shudd'ring limbs ;
In my cold veins the crimson scarcely flows,
My slack'ning nerves their nat'ral aids refuse,
From aking eyes the briny sorrow breaks,
And liquid pearl, rolls down my faded cheeks,
The ling'ring remnant of my life's opprest,
And death-like damps bedew my lab'ring breast.
Had I the royal prophet's tuneful strain
When Israel's breathless chiefs had ting'd the plain ;
Would but Apollo's genial touch inspire
Such sounds as breathe from ***** warbling lyre ;
Then, might my notes in melting measures flow,
And make all nature wear the signs of woe.
Content, my muse must mourn with humbler strings,
While GEORGES's death, and Albion's loss she sings.
Long had the fields resign'd their smiling dress,
And herds rov'd round for food in dumb distress,
When famish'd hills, in russet robes array'd,
Seem'd to presage some dire event decreed :
While fainting nature felt such ardent fire,
As if 'twas with this fever to expire ;
Then from the King of kings, a message flies,
To call his great vicegerent to the skies :
An hasty summons snatch'd our Sov'reign's breath,
His life is set, his glory dim'd with death.
Let ev'ry gem which studs the British crown,
Look pale and wan, since Albion's light is down :
No more you'll share its rays, nor mingling shed
Your trembling splendors round his sacred head.
No more the throne shall show that awful face,
Where majesty was mix'd with mildest grace :
Nor hostile realms revere their conqu'rour king,
Nor nations shroud beneath his shelt'ring wing.
