Page:Stanzas on George III.pdf/6

8

O full of days and virtues! on thy head Centred the woes of many a bitter lot; Fathers have sorrow'd o'er their beauteous dead, Eyes, quench'd in night, the sun-beam have forgot; Minds have striv'n buoyantly with evil years. And sunk beneath their gathering weight at length; But Pain for thee had fill'd a cup of tears, Where every anguish mingled all its strength; By thy lost child we saw thee weeping stand, And shadows deep around fell from th' Eternal's hand.

Then came the noon of glory, which thy dreams, Perchance of yore, had faintly prophesied; But what to thee the splendour of its beams? The ice-rock glows not midst the summer's pride! Nations leap'd up to joy—as streams that burst, At the warm touch of spring, their frozen chain, And o'er the plains, whose verdure once they nursed, Roll in exulting melody again; And bright o'er earth the long majestic line Of England's triumphs swept, to rouse all hearts—but thine.