Page:The Emigrants.pdf/53



Ah! much I mourn thy sorrows, hapless Queen! And deem thy expiation made to Heaven For every fault, to which Prosperity Betray'd thee, when it plac'd thee on a throne Where boundless power was thine, and thou wert rais'd High (as it seem'd) above the envious reach Of destiny! Whate'er thy errors were, Be they no more remember'd; tho' the rage Of Party swell'd them to such crimes, as bade Compassion stifle every sigh that rose For thy disastrous lot­—More than enough Thou hast endur'd; and every English heart, Ev'n those, that highest beat in Freedom's cause, Disclaim as base, and of that cause unworthy, The Vengeance, or the Fear, that makes thee still A miserable prisoner!­—Ah! who knows,