Classic Poem

The mournful Muse, in dismal Sable drest,
Her Head, sunk low upon her pensive Breast;
With Arms across, unanimated lies,
And speaks her Grief, 'tween interrupting Sighs.
Mourn, mourn, with me, ye People, and give way
To honest Tears — a Tribute we shou'd pay,
To the blest Manes , of our belov'd King!
Our Father! Friend! — Legitimately spring
The deep-felt Sorrow, which your Looks express;
Nor shou'd it, for so good a King, be less:
He, as a tender Parent, anxious strove
To raise his People, and to shew his Love;
The Monarch, and the Man, he equal wore,
Nor, as a Monarch, priz'd himself the more:
Thus did he live — and thus lamented dy'd
Britannia, Scotia and Hibernia 's Pride.

But now, behold! the Genius of our Isle
Advancing, with a manly placid Smile,
His Looks denote Contentment, Joy and Love,
And hark! his Voice doth ev'ry Care remove.
Rejoice, ye People, tho' your George is dead,
Behold, a blooming Monarch in his Stead
Another George , within whose youthful Breast,
Both George and Fred'rick 's Virtues, are imprest;
Imbib'd in infancy, their Maxims rare,
And George , shall prove, he's worthy all their Care.
Britannia 's Genius watchful at his Side,
Shall guard the Royal Youth, and damp the Pride
Of Gallic Foes — And by a lasting Peace
Crown this bless'd Isle with Honour and Encrease.
The prudent Labour, of our late good King
Shall prove a Root, from which shall surely spring.
Unfading Laurels, to adorn the Head
Of George the Third — o'er whom may Virtue Spread
Her Sacred Wings, and Heav'n still pour down
It's choicest Blessings, on the British Throne.