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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.
