by Elizabeth Bentley
AND is that beauteous Star eclips'd in night,
Which late in Brunswick's constellation shone?
Whose rays with mild effulgence beam'd so bright,
And shed their lustre near Britannia's throne.
Those domes to mutual happiness so dear,
To sounds of mirth whose roofs responsive rung,
Alas! have witness'd grief's impassion'd tear,
And woe's wild accents quivering on each tongue.
Could royalty avail, could nuptial truth
Claim an exemption from the common doom,
Then had not innocence and blooming youth
Thus sought the dark recesses of the tomb.
Courteous and kind to those of humblest birth,
Diffusing blessings round where'er she came,
Her soul was dignified by native worth,
A nation's voice with love pronounc'd her name.
Thus Hope with flatt'ring tints the picture drew.
Those virtues that now grace the private scene,
Call'd to a throne, shall burst on public view,
Britannia saw, and hail'd her future queen.
But vain, alas! are all terrestrial joys,
Tho' fair the prospect to the expecting eye;
Death's icy touch our fancied bliss destroys,
Dissolv'd in air the allusive visions fly.
Lo! Heav'n, all merciful as wise, prepares
A brighter crown her temples to adorn;
A diadem unclogg'd with mortal cares,
For ah! what earthly crown but bears a thorn?
What now remains, but with affection's tear,
To pay the last sad rites to merit due?
The speaking marble to her mem'ry rear,
And deck her urn with moisten'd wreaths of yew.
O! teach us, Lord, while thus our hopes are crush'd,
And we with bleeding hearts our loss deplore,
By resignation ev'ry murmur hush'd,
Thy awful ways in silence to adore.
Last updated January 14, 2019