Classic Poem

Since she, by whom her people all live blest,
To sorrow's reign, has giv'n her ruling breast,
Grief should be loudly heard, as well as seen,
To noise his death, and mourn our widow'd queen.
The friends of Anna must not, silent, weep;
Of streams, 'tis said, the gentlest are most deep!
But grief is passion , and, where passion reigns,
Nature scorns decency, and breaks her chains:
Like some fierce wind-driv'n show'r, true grief appears;
'Tis but a breeze , that is allay'd, by tears .
She does, indeed, with sighs, and tears, complain,
Like spring-born zephirs, mix'd, with sprinkling rain!
But we , the cloud, with thunder charg'd, should spread,
And gen'ral woe speak big, to suit the virtue dead.
Great, as his mercy, should our pity be,
Ah! who, unmov'd, can yon fair sorrow see?
The royal Dane that treasure long possest,
Dear, to her soul, and faithful, to her breast!
Free from ambition, innocently great,
'Twixt faction's shoals, he piloted the state!
And temp'ring pow'r, tho' lord of sov'reign sway,
Shone bright, yet scorch'd not, like the sun, in May .