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POEMS.
—"Ye shames of Nature!" thus the Monarch cries,
"Your Father loaths the hour, when breath ye drew!
What-e'er my faults in angry Britain's eyes,
Usurping Harpies, I have none to you.
"Your Father loaths the hour, when breath ye drew!
What-e'er my faults in angry Britain's eyes,
Usurping Harpies, I have none to you.
"And must your Sire now stray from court to court
A royal Beggar, bowed with age and woes?
Must foreign alms his irksome life support,
And foreign hands in death his limbs compose?
A royal Beggar, bowed with age and woes?
Must foreign alms his irksome life support,
And foreign hands in death his limbs compose?
"Ah! while this last sad image fills your sight,
Does not accusing guilt your souls dismay?—
Cold as the Moon-beams which direct my flight,
Deaf as the seas which bear my bark away,
Does not accusing guilt your souls dismay?—
Cold as the Moon-beams which direct my flight,
Deaf as the seas which bear my bark away,
"Say, can ye calmly still my anguish view,
And calmly still a Father's faults condemn?
Still are ye deaf?—When at thy feet they sue,
Judge of the world, be Thou as deaf to them!
And calmly still a Father's faults condemn?
Still are ye deaf?—When at thy feet they sue,
Judge of the world, be Thou as deaf to them!
