Page:Stanzas on George III.pdf/4

6 Tell us no more 'tis not the time for grief,
 * Now that the exile of the soul is past,

And Death, blest messenger of Heaven's relief,
 * Hath borne the wanderer to his rest at last;

For him, Eternity hath tenfold day, We feel, we know, 'tis thus—yet Nature will have way.

What tho' amidst us, like a blasted oak,
 * Sadd'ning the scene where once it nobly reign'd,

A dread memorial of the lightning-stroke,
 * Stamp'd with its fiery record, he remain'd;

Around that shatter'd tree still fondly clung
 * Th' undying tendrils of our love, which drew

Fresh nurture from its deep decay, and sprung
 * Luxuriant thence, to Glory's ruin true;

While England hung her trophies on the stem, That desolately stood, unconscious e'en of.

Of them unconscious! Oh mysterious doom!
 * Who shall unfold the counsels of the skies?

His was the voice which roused, as from the tomb,
 * The realm's high soul to loftiest energies!