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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=391569" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Stanzas To the Memory Of George III</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Among many nations was there no King like him.' –Nehemiah, xiii, 26.<br>'Know ye not that there is a prince and a great man fallen this day in Israel?' – 2 Samuel, iii, 38. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">ANOTHER warning sound! the funeral bell,<br>Startling the cities of the isle once more<br>With measured tones of melanchoIy swell,<br>Strikes on the awakened heart from shore to shore.<br>He at whose coming monarchs sink to dust,<br>The chambers of our palaces hath trod,<br>And the long-suffering spirit of the just,<br>Pure from its ruins, hath return'd to God!<br>Yet may not England o'er her Father weep:<br>Thoughts to her bosom crowd, too many, and too deep.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Vain voice of Reason, hush!–they yet must flow,<br>The unrestrained, involuntary tears;<br>A thousand feelings sanctify the woe,<br>Roused by the glorious shades of vanished years.<br>Tell us no more 'tis not the time for grief,<br>Now that the exile of the soul is past,<br>And Death, blest messenger of Heaven's relief,<br>Hath borne the wanderer to his rest at last;<br>For him, eternity hath tenfold day,<br>We feel, we know, 'tis thus–yet nature will have way.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">What though amidst us, like a blasted oak,<br>Saddening the scene where once it nobly reign'd,<br>A dread memorial of the lightning stroke,<br>Stamp'd with its fiery record, he remain'd;<br>Around that shatter'd tree still fondly clung<br>The undying tendrils of our love, which drew<br>Fresh nature from its deep decay, and sprung<br>Luxuriant thence, to Glory's ruin true;<br>While England hung her trophies on the stem,<br>That desolately stood, unconscious e'en of THEM.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Of them unconscious! Oh mysterious doom!<br>Who shall unfold the counsels of the skies?<br>His was the voice which roused, as from the tomb,<br>The realm's high soul to loftiest energies!<br>His was the spirit, o'er the isles which threw<br>The mantle of its fortitude; and wrought<br>In every bosom, powerful to renew<br>Each dying spark of pure and generous thought;<br>The star of tempests! beaming on the mast, {1}<br>The seaman's torch of Hope, 'midst perils deepening fast.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Then from the unslumbering influence of his worth,<br>Strength, as of inspiration, fill'd the land;<br>A young, but quenchless, flame went brightly forth,<br>Kindled by him–who saw it not expand!<br>Such was the will of heaven–the gifted seer,<br>Who with his God had communed, face to face<br>And from the house of bondage, and of fear,<br>In faith victorious, led the chosen race;<br>He through the desert and the waste their guide,<br>Saw dimly from afar, the promised land–and died.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">O full of days and virtues! on thy head<br>Centred the woes of many a bitter lot;<br>Fathers have sorrow'd o'er their beauteous dead,<br>Eyes, quench'd in night, the sunbeam have forgot;<br>Minds have striven buoyantly with evil years,<br>And sunk beneath their gathering weight at length;<br>But Pain for thee had fill'd a cup of tears,<br>Where every anguish mingled all its strength;<br>By thy lost child we saw thee weeping stand,<br>And shadows deep around fell from the Eternal's hand.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Then came the noon of glory, which thy dreams<br>Perchance of yore had faintly prophesied;<br>But what to thee the splendour of its beams?<br>The ice-rock glows not 'midst the summer's pride!<br>Nations leap'd up to joy–as streams that burst,<br>At the warm touch of spring, their frozen chain,<br>And o'er the plains, whose verdure once they nursed,<br>Roll in exulting melody again;<br>And bright o'er earth the long majestic line<br>Of England's triumphs swept, to rouse all hearts–but thine.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Oh! what a dazzling vision, by the veil<br>That o'er thy spirit hung, was shut from thee,<br>When sceptred chieftains throng'd with palms to hail<br>The crowning isle, the anointed of the sea!<br>Within thy palaces the lords of earth<br>Met to rejoice–rich pageants glitter'd by,<br>And stately revels imaged, in their mirth,<br>The old magnificence of chivalry.<br>They reach'd not thee–amidst them, yet alone,<br>Stillness and gloom begirt one dim and shadowy throne.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Yet there was mercy still–if joy no more<br>Within that blasted circle might intrude,<br>Earth had no grief whose footstep might pass o'er<br>The silent limits of its solitude !<br>If all unheard the bridal song awoke<br>Our hearts' full echoes, as it swell'd on high;<br>Alike unheard the sudden dirge, that broke<br>On the glad strain, with dread solemnity!<br>If the land's rose unheeded wore its bloom,<br>Alike unfelt the storm that swept it to the tomb.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And she, who, tried through all the stormy past,<br>Severely, deeply proved, in many an hour,<br>Watch'd o'er thee, firm and faithful to the last,<br>Sustain'd inspired, by strong affection's power;<br>If to thy soul her voice no music bore–<br>If thy closed eye and wandering spirit caught<br>No light from looks, that fondly would explore<br>Thy mien, for traces of responsive thought;<br>Oh! thou wert spared the pang that would have thrill'd<br>Thine inmost heart, when death that anxious bosom still'd.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Thy loved ones fell around thee. Manhood's prime,<br>Youth, with its glory, in its fullness, age,<br>All, at the gates of their eternal clime<br>Lay down, and closed their mortal pilgrimage;<br>The land wore ashes for its perish'd flowers,<br>The grave's imperial harvest. Thou, meanwhile,<br>Didst walk unconscious through thy royal towers,<br>The one that wept not in the tearful isle!<br>As a tired warrlor, on his battle-plain,<br>Breathes deep in dreams amidst the mourners and the slain.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And who can tell what visions might be thine?<br>The stream of thought, though broken, still was pure!<br>Still o'er that wave the stars of heaven might shine,<br>Where earthly image would no more endure!<br>Though many a step, of once-familiar sound,<br>Came as a stranger's o'er thy closing ear,<br>And voices breathed forgotten tones around,<br>Which that paternal heart once thrill'd to hear;<br>The mind hath senses of its own, and powers<br>To people boundless worlds, in its most wandering hours.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Nor might the phantoms to thy spirit known<br>Be dark or wild, creations of remorse;<br>Unstain'd by thee, the blameless past had thrown<br>No fearful shadows o'er the future's course:<br>For thee no cloud, from memory's dread abyss,<br>Might shape such forms as haunt the tyrant's eye;<br>And, closing up each avenue of bliss,<br>Murmur their summons, to 'despair and die!'<br>No! e'en though joy depart, though reason cease,<br>Still virtue's ruin'd home is redolent of peace.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">They might be with thee still–the loved, the tried,<br>The fair, the lost–they might be with thee still!<br>More softly seen, in radiance purified<br>From each dim vapour of terrestrial ill;<br>Long after earth received them, and the note<br>Of the last requiem o'er their dust was pour'd,<br>As passing sunbeams o'er thy soul might float<br>Those forms, from us withdrawn–to thee restored!<br>Spirits of holiness, in light reveal'd,<br>To commune with a mind whose source of tears was seal'd.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Came they with tidings from the worlds above,<br>Those viewless regions where the weary rest?<br>Sever'd from earth, estranged from mortal love,<br>Was thy mysterious converse with the blest?<br>Or shone their visionary presence bright<br>With human beauty?–did their smiles renew<br>Those days of sacred and serene delight,<br>When fairest beings in thy pathway grew?<br>Oh! Heaven hath balm for every wound it makes,<br>Healing the broken heart; it smites, but ne'er forsakes.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">These may be fantasies–and this alone,<br>Of all we picture in our dreams, is sure;<br>That rest, made perfect, is at length thine own,<br>Rest, in thy God immortally secure!<br>Enough for tranquil faith; released from all<br>The woes that graved Heaven's lessons on thy brow,<br>No cloud to dim, no fetter to enthral,<br>Haply thine eye is on thy people now;<br>Whose love around thee still its offerings shed,<br>Though vainly sweet, as flowers, grief's tribute to the dead.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But if the ascending, disembodied mind,<br>Borne, on the wings of morning, to the skies,<br>May cast one glance of tenderness behind<br>On scenes once hallow'd by its mortal ties,<br>How much hast thou to gaze on! all that lay<br>By the dark mantle of thy soul conceal'd,<br>The might, the majesty, the proud array<br>Of England's march o'er many a noble field,<br>All spread beneath thee, in a blaze of light,<br>Shine like some glorious land, view'd from an Alpine height.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Away, presumptuous. thought!–departed saint!<br>To thy freed vision what can earth display<br>Of pomp, of royalty, that is not faint,<br>Seen from the birth-place of celestial day?<br>Oh! pale and weak the sun's reflected rays<br>E'en in their fervour of meridian heat,<br>To him, who in the sanctuary may gaze<br>On the bright cloud that fills the mercy-seat<br>And thou mayst view, from thy divine abode,<br>The dust of empires flit before a breath of God.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And yet we mourn thee! Yes! thy place is void<br>Within our hearts–there veil'd thine image dwelt,<br>But cherish'd still; and o'er that tie destroy'd,<br>Though faith rejoice, fond nature still must melt.<br>Beneath the long-loved sceptre of thy sway,<br>Thousands were born, who now in dust repose,<br>And many a head, with years and sorrows grey,<br>Wore youth's bright tresses, when thy star arose;<br>And many a glorious mind, since that fair dawn,<br>Hath fill'd our sphere with light, now to its source withdrawn.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Earthquakes have rock'd the nations:–things revered,<br>The ancestral fabrics of the world, went down<br>In ruins, from whose stones Ambition rear'd<br>His lonely pyramid of dread renown.<br>But when the fires that long had slumber'd, pent<br>Deep in men's bosoms, with volcanic force,<br>Bursting their prison-house, each bulwark rent,<br>And swept each holy barrier from their course,<br>Firm and unmoved amidst that lava-flood,<br>Still, by thine arm upheld, our ancient landmarks stood.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Be they eternal! –Be thy children found<br>Still to their country's altars true like thee!<br>And, while 'the name of Briton' is a sound<br>Of rallying music to the brave and free,<br>With the high feelings, at the word which swell,<br>To make the breast a shrine for Freedom's flame,<br>Be mingled thoughts of him, who loved so well,<br>Who left so pure, its heritage of fame!<br>Let earth with trophies guard the conqueror's dust,<br>Heaven in our souls embalms the memory of the just.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">All else shall pass away–the thrones of kings,<br>The very traces of their tombs depart;<br>But number not with perishable things<br>The holy records Virtue leaves the heart,<br>Heirlooms from race to race!–and oh! in days,<br>When, by the yet unborn, thy deeds are blest,<br>When our sons learn, 'as household words', thy praise,<br>Still on thine offspring, may thy spirit rest!<br>And many a name of that imperial line,<br>Father and patriot! blend, in England's songs, with thine!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Felicia+Dorothea+Hemans">Felicia Dorothea Hemans</a><div class=q>
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'Know ye not that there is a prince and a great man fallen this day in Israel?' – 2 Samuel, iii, 38. 

ANOTHER warning sound! the funeral bell,
Startling the cities of the i..."></div>
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