« AnteriorContinuar »
From India unpropitious news arrives,*
And Prince Octavius quits this mortal scene.
Election broils now come in play, 1784.
With all it's Herculean store
Of elegant, not superficial, lore,
Is by the will of Heav'n to death consign'd.
The monument thou leav'st behind,—
Thy Works,—like the tamed Torso, greatly prove
Our praise, or imitation, far above.
In sev'nteen hundred eighty-five,
* Our forces bath by land and sea suffered severely in India, just as the news of peace arrived to put an end to hostilities, and this was the final operation of the late war.
To To hear how Warren Hastigns, tried, 178*.
Such inquisition might abide,
As, when once brought before his Peers,
They wove and wove for years and years;
As if, like Old Ulysses' bride,
Their daily knots the night untied,
At length, both sides to plead admitted,
The Governor most amply is acquitted.
The Shop-tax for a while disturbs the town,
Commercial plans with France and Spain we sign,
On base of reciprocity,
'Gainst future animosity.
Masking in suppliant guise th' insidious knife, Had nearly plunged in mourning all the land,
By sacrifice of our lov'd parent's life.
* Margaret Nicholson attempted to stab His Majesty with a knife she had concealed in the folds of a petition, which he was just reaching his hand to receive; she proved to be insane, and was directed, under the most humane attention, to be confined in Bethlem Hospital.
Nor know her wand'ring senses to this hour,
Had not kind heaven interposed it's pow'r,
While thanks for George's preservation rise,
Amelia, his royal sister, dies. 178?.
Next might we open a vast, boundless theme,
Of wond'rous narrative, more like a dream
Than semblant to the style of sober pens,
I mean when civil daemons left their dens:
With specious garb, and demagogues' deep wile,
Who look like peace, yet '* murder while they smile."
Oh, hapless Gallia, 'tis for thee we mean
These plaints, and happy for the Muse, I ween,
Not her's the task to trace each blood-stain'd scene
Thy mourning streets, thy fanes, thine altars saw;
Pass we the horrors of thy princes slain,
Pass we where lovely woman falls unspared 5
Pass Pass we where brutes o'er heroism reign,
While red-eyed Revolution wildly glared. My Muse disclaims each deed of crime or glory, But what alone relates to British story.
Lord George, who led the chapel-burning crew,
Mansfield, the sagejudicial chief, expires:
The monarch suffers,) harsh debate,
Pointed Pointed his faithful friends to his regard,
And feeling, reft of words, essay'd reward,
The King's recovery was given
As sudden blessing sent from Heaven,
To interpose when Discord's voice,
In accents hoarse, bade fiends rejoice;
But Providence withdrew the veil,
The daemon's fell intentions fail:
And in the sacred dome,* by crouded hearts
Surrounded, George his gratitude imparts,
To where Sincerity will still prevail.
Burke, and his friend Charles Fox who used
Cornwall's decease the Speaker's chair bestows
• His Majesty went in solemn procession to St. Paul's to return thanks tor his recovery.
t A stjne was thrown at His Majesty by one John Frith, a half-pay lieutenant, which fortunately missed the loyal peison: Frith being proved insane, upon trial, was sent to a proper place of confinement.