Tixall Poetry/The Royal Exile
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XLII.
The Royal Exile.
Sad Albina sitts in mourning,
Sighing with her armes acrosse;
Waiting for her Lords returning,
Thus she doth bemoane her losse:
Ah me! Albanius is for ever,
In spite of all those godlike charmes,
Forc'd by those he most did favour,
From his empire, and my armes.
Sighing with her armes acrosse;
Waiting for her Lords returning,
Thus she doth bemoane her losse:
Ah me! Albanius is for ever,
In spite of all those godlike charmes,
Forc'd by those he most did favour,
From his empire, and my armes.
Could you thus, ungratful nation,
Long with peace and plenty blest,
For my tender preservation,
Keepe rebellion in your breast?
Oh, yee heavens! could his devotion
Be adjudged an offence?
And an exile ore the ocean,
A reward of innocence?
Long with peace and plenty blest,
For my tender preservation,
Keepe rebellion in your breast?
Oh, yee heavens! could his devotion
Be adjudged an offence?
And an exile ore the ocean,
A reward of innocence?
May my teares, like floods stil flowing,
Swel as big as the salt maine;
Sighs like gales of wind stil blowing,
To detect him home againe:
May those rebels fly before him,
That are authers of my moan;
And blest angels soon restore him,
To his empire and his throne.
Swel as big as the salt maine;
Sighs like gales of wind stil blowing,
To detect him home againe:
May those rebels fly before him,
That are authers of my moan;
And blest angels soon restore him,
To his empire and his throne.