On The Death Of Her Majesty

O'ER Royal Charlotte's sacred bier
Let Britain pour the grateful tear;
Ah! why should be represt
Such tears as pious children pay,
When parent spirits wing their way,
In sweet memorial blest?
'Twas not the pride of princely birth,
It was her soul's intrinsic worth,
That dignified the throne;
With this compared the purest gem
That form'd her regal diadem,
With meaner lustre shone.
Destin'd our Monarch's state to share,
The tender soother of his care,
In drear affliction's night;
A pattern to each high-born dame,
Who owns a wife's, a mother's name,
Of virtue's genuine light.
To every loyal bosom dear,
While meek in her exalted sphere,
With humble mind she mov'd;
Replete with ev'ry Christian grace,
May future Queens her footsteps trace,
Like her revered, beloved.