Poems on Several Subjects, the Ode

Why looks the visionary maid so sad, Ah! why, Britannia, thus in sable clad? Oh! speak the cause from whence such sorrows flow, That, by partaking, we may ease thy woe.

Lend, lend your tears, ye virgin train, Let music swell her softest strain! Oh! make the solemn dirge resound, And spread religious sorrow round— With me the deep-felt loss deplore— My son! my son! is now no more!

Then let the solemn dirge begin, Whilst we our voices join, To swell the tend'rest note of grief, And mix our woe with thine.

The glorious sun, Britannia's king, Withdraws his golden light: His setting ray Glides swift away, And yields to conq'ring night.

Down in the deep and dreary tomb His mortal part must lie; And ev'ry bell Now tolls his knell, Tears flow from every eye.

Far o'er the wild and wat'ry waste, Hear the loud cannons roar; 'Till winds convey The sounds away, That die along the shore.

But, lo! his sainted soul ascends High thro' th' etherial road; And Briton's sighs Like incense rise, To waft him to his God.