ON THE KING'S ILLNESS:

1811.

REST, rest, afflicted spirit, quickly pass

Thine hour of bitter suffering! Rest awaits thee,
There, where, the load of weary life laid down,
The peasant and the king repose together:
There peaceful sleep, thy quiet grave bedewed
With tears of those who loved thee. Not for thee,
In the dark chambers of the nether world,

Shall spectre kings rise from their burning thrones
And point the vacant seat, and scoffing say,

Art thou become like us?-O not for thee!

For thou hadst human feelings, and hast lived

A man with men; and kindly charities,

Even such as warm the cottage hearth, were thine.

And therefore falls the tear from eyes not used

To gaze on kings with admiration fond.

And thou hast knelt at meek Religion's shrine

With no mock homage, and hast owned her rights
Sacred in every breast: and therefore rise,
Affectionate, for thee, the orisons

And mingled prayers, alike from vaulted domes
Whence the loud organ peals, and raftered roofs
Of humbler worship. Still remembering this,
A nation's pity and a nation's love

Linger beside thy couch, in this the day

Of thy sad visitation, veiling faults

Of erring judgement, and not will perverse.

Yet, O that thou hadst closed the wounds of war!

That had been praise to suit a higher strain.

Farewell the years rolled down the gulf of time!
Thy name has chronicled a long bright page
Of England's story; and perhaps the babe
Who opens, as thou closest thine, his eyes

On this eventful world, when aged grown,

Musing on times gone by, shall sigh and say,
Shaking his thin grey hairs, whitened with grief,
Our fathers' days were happy. Fare thee well!
My thread of life has even run with thine
For many a lustre; and thy closing day

I contemplate, not mindless of my own,
Nor to its call reluctant.

A THOUGHT ON DEATH:

NOVEMBER, 1814.

WHEN life as opening buds is sweet,
And golden hopes the fancy greet,

And Youth prepares his joys to meet,

Alas! how hard it is to die!

When just is seized some valued prize,

And duties press, and tender ties

Forbid the soul from earth to rise,

How awful then it is to die!

When, one by one, those ties are torn,

And friend from friend is snatched forlorn,

And man is left alone to mourn,

Ah then, how easy 'tis to die!

When faith is firm, and conscience clear,

And words of peace the spirit cheer,

And visioned glories half appear,—

'Tis joy, 'tis triumph then to die.

When trembling limbs refuse their weight, And films, slow gathering, dim the sight, And clouds obscure the mental light,—

'Tis nature's precious boon to die.