Peace to these aisles, through which I pensive stray, And press with reverent feet the time-worn stones, Led by yon glimmering Lamp's sepulchral ray, Which marks the spot, where rest a Monarch's bones.
Languid and cold, to light, but not to chear, Falls the faint gleam upon the tomb below, Like Pity's voice on some lone widow's ear, Mocking the majesty of buried Woe!
Here will I pause, our pious requiem pour, And greet his exit from Life's tragic stage; Nor ask, what name the exalted sufferer bore, Nor how 'tis blazoned on the historic page.
Whether in Valour's lists He vainly toiled, Or Conquest clasped him with her crimson hand; Whether tyrannic Pride his purple soiled, Or patriot Subjects loved his mild command;
Whether, fair Peace, He held thy olive dear, Or stretched his power o'er many a bleeding state, What-e'er his deeds, his station claims a tear; What-e'er his faults, his griefs were sure as great.
Treason's chief Victim, Policy's prime Tool, Feared by the Weak, Derided by the Strong, Jest of the Stoic, Envy of the Fool, When right the Nation's Slave, the Nation's Curse when wrong;
His Crown, a burning band which sears his brain; His power, a bubble the next hour may burst; His life, a glittering web of pomp and pain, Gorgeously wretched, and supremely curst;
Of all their lots, whose threads the sisters spin, None sadder than a King's, Reflection views: Life shows him nothing He can wish to win, And bids him only breathe to fear, and lose!
Low in the heavens may sink his Star of Fate, But ne'er can hope in loftier course to move: His couch may shine the burning throne of Hate, But ne'er can bloom the roseate bower of Love.
He bids no flame in virtuous bosom rise; He forms no plan of fond connubial bliss: He reads no chaste consent in down-cast 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 his 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 eye-lid rolls: He knows no intercourse of equal minds, No kind expansion of congenial souls.
Or is there midst his Followers One, whom best 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 B—! Thy mystic tale relate, And say, what blessings followed G—'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 Syren 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 blest, Their grateful arms will guard thy valued life, Thy martial fame appal the Assassin's breast, Thy patriot virtue blunt his brandished knife:
Could Valour aught avail, or Public-Love, France had not mourned 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; Doomed 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 watched and barred!"— Vain Man! in Friendship's garb, with favour graced, Fate lurks within, and mocks thy doubled guard!
Thy trusted Servant, midst thy Foes enrolled, To drug thy bowl employs his baleful art; Thy favourite Mistress, bribed with foreign gold, Waits but thy sleep to pierce thy doating heart:
And Lo! thy darling Son [most false of Friends!] By dire Ambition steeled 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! Red glows the Moon, as charmed by Sorcerer's verse! Ocean rolls back! Fiends wing the lurid air!— Knew'st Thou that sound?—It was a Father's curse!
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, Ambitious Daughters drive this second Lear;— But noCordelia wipes his tears away!
Gushes the flood fast from the Exile's lids; Stream his grey 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 loaths the hour, when breath ye drew! What-e'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, bowed 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 Moon-beams 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 your's survive to wear That crown, you purchased with your Father's curse[1]!"—
He said!—Heaven heard the prayer of regal woe! Lo! Mary's hand a barren sceptre waves; While Anne but teems, "how Mother's love" to know, See her sweet Blossoms fall, and languish o'er their graves[2].
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 pre-eminence 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 bleeds:
But while my breast one feeling throb supplies, And while one pitying drop these lids contain, Oh! sceptred Grief, a sigh for thee shall rise, And a tear trickle on thy golden chain.
Lord of all life! Fountain of good and ill! If thorniest paths must guide me to my bier, My neck shall humbly bow beneath thy will, Nor one proud murmur term that will severe:
With aches and anguish rack each quivering limb, Crush this poor frame, and rob these orbs of sight; Bid Slander's breath my fame's pure mirror dim, And freezing want hope's lovely harvest blight.
Make me, of all who drink Heaven's vital air, The poorest, lowliest, vilest, saddest thing!— My load of griefs with patience still I'll bear, And thank my God, I was not born a King!
THE END.
↑James the IId. sent Q. 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."—Schutz's Letter to Bothmar, Sept. 29, 1713.
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