THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS
SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF HER LATE ROYAL HIGHNESS,
THE PRINCESS DOWAGER OF WALES.38
PART I.
Overture.—A solemn dirge.
Air.—Trio.
Arise, ye sons of worth, arise,
And waken every note of woe;
When truth and virtue reach the skies,
’Tis ours to weep the want below!
And waken every note of woe;
When truth and virtue reach the skies,
’Tis ours to weep the want below!
Chorus.
Man Speaker.
The praise attending pomp and power,
The incense given to kings,
Are but the trappings of an hour—
Mere transitory things!
The base bestow them; but the good agree
To spurn the venal gifts as flattery.
But, when to pomp and power are join’d
An equal dignity of mind—
When titles are the smallest claim—
When wealth, and rank, and noble blood,
But aid the power of doing good—
Then all their trophies last; and flattery turns to fame.
Blest spirit thou, whose fame, just born to bloom,
Shall spread and flourish from the tomb,
How hast thou left mankind for heaven!
Even now reproach and faction mourn,
And, wondering how their rage was borne,
Request to be forgiven.
Alas! they never had thy hate;
Unmov’d, in conscious rectitude,
Thy towering mind self-centred stood,
Nor wanted man’s opinion to be great.
In vain, to charm thy ravish’d sight,
A thousand gifts would fortune send;
In vain, to drive thee from the right,
A thousand sorrows urg’d thy end:
Like some well-fashion’d arch thy patience stood,
And purchas’d strength from its increasing load.
Pain met thee like a friend that set thee free
Affliction still is virtue’s opportunity!
The incense given to kings,
Are but the trappings of an hour—
Mere transitory things!
The base bestow them; but the good agree
To spurn the venal gifts as flattery.
But, when to pomp and power are join’d
An equal dignity of mind—
When titles are the smallest claim—
When wealth, and rank, and noble blood,
But aid the power of doing good—
Then all their trophies last; and flattery turns to fame.
Blest spirit thou, whose fame, just born to bloom,
Shall spread and flourish from the tomb,
How hast thou left mankind for heaven!
Even now reproach and faction mourn,
And, wondering how their rage was borne,
Request to be forgiven.
Alas! they never had thy hate;
Unmov’d, in conscious rectitude,
Thy towering mind self-centred stood,
Nor wanted man’s opinion to be great.
In vain, to charm thy ravish’d sight,
A thousand gifts would fortune send;
In vain, to drive thee from the right,
A thousand sorrows urg’d thy end:
Like some well-fashion’d arch thy patience stood,
And purchas’d strength from its increasing load.
Pain met thee like a friend that set thee free
Affliction still is virtue’s opportunity!
Song.—By a Man.
Virtue, on herself relying,
Every passion hush’d to rest,
Loses every pain in dying,
In the hope of being blest.
Every passion hush’d to rest,
Loses every pain in dying,
In the hope of being blest.
Every added pang she suffers,
Some increasing good bestows;
Every shock that malice offers,
Only rocks her to repose.
Some increasing good bestows;
Every shock that malice offers,
Only rocks her to repose.
Woman Speaker.
Yet, ah! what terrors frown’d upon her fate—
Death, with its formidable band,
Fever and pain and pale consumptive care,
Determin’d took their stand:
Death, with its formidable band,
Fever and pain and pale consumptive care,
Determin’d took their stand:
Nor did the cruel ravagers design
To finish all their efforts at a blow;
But, mischievously slow,
They robb’d the relic and defac’d the shrine.
To finish all their efforts at a blow;
But, mischievously slow,
They robb’d the relic and defac’d the shrine.
With unavailing grief,
Despairing of relief,
Her weeping children round
Beheld each hour
Death’s growing power,
And trembled as he frown’d.
As helpless friends, who view from shore
The labouring ship, and hear the tempest roar,
While winds and waves their wishes cross—
They stood, while hope and comfort fail,
Not to assist, but to bewail
The inevitable loss.
Relentless tyrant! at thy call
How do the good, the virtuous fall!
Truth, beauty, worth, and all that most engage,
But wake thy vengeance, and provoke thy rage.
Despairing of relief,
Her weeping children round
Beheld each hour
Death’s growing power,
And trembled as he frown’d.
As helpless friends, who view from shore
The labouring ship, and hear the tempest roar,
While winds and waves their wishes cross—
They stood, while hope and comfort fail,
Not to assist, but to bewail
The inevitable loss.
Relentless tyrant! at thy call
How do the good, the virtuous fall!
Truth, beauty, worth, and all that most engage,
But wake thy vengeance, and provoke thy rage.
Song.—By a Man.
When vice my dart and scythe supply,
How great a king of terrors I!
If folly, fraud, your hearts engage,
Tremble, ye mortals, at my rage!
How great a king of terrors I!
If folly, fraud, your hearts engage,
Tremble, ye mortals, at my rage!
Fall, round me fall, ye little things;
Ye statesmen, warriors, poets, kings;
If virtue fail her counsel sage,
Tremble, ye mortals, at my rage!
Ye statesmen, warriors, poets, kings;
If virtue fail her counsel sage,
Tremble, ye mortals, at my rage!
Man Speaker.
Yet let that wisdom, urg’d by her example,
Teach us to estimate what all must suffer;
Let us prize death as the best gift of nature—
As a safe inn, where weary travellers,
When they have journey’d through a world of cares,
May put off life, and be at rest for ever.
Groans, weeping friends, indeed, and gloomy sables,
May oft distract us with their sad solemnity:
The preparation is the executioner.
Death, when unmask’d, shows me a friendly face,
And is a terror only at a distance;
For as the line of life conducts me on
To death’s great court, the prospect seems more fair:
’Tis Nature’s kind retreat, that’s always open
To take us in, when we have drain’d the cup
Of life, or worn our days to wretchedness.
Teach us to estimate what all must suffer;
Let us prize death as the best gift of nature—
As a safe inn, where weary travellers,
When they have journey’d through a world of cares,
May put off life, and be at rest for ever.
Groans, weeping friends, indeed, and gloomy sables,
May oft distract us with their sad solemnity:
The preparation is the executioner.
Death, when unmask’d, shows me a friendly face,
And is a terror only at a distance;
For as the line of life conducts me on
To death’s great court, the prospect seems more fair:
’Tis Nature’s kind retreat, that’s always open
To take us in, when we have drain’d the cup
Of life, or worn our days to wretchedness.
In that secure, serene retreat,
Where all the humble, all the great,
Promiscuously recline;
Where, wildly huddled to the eye,
The beggar’s pouch and prince’s purple lie,
May every bliss be thine.
Where all the humble, all the great,
Promiscuously recline;
Where, wildly huddled to the eye,
The beggar’s pouch and prince’s purple lie,
May every bliss be thine.
And, ah! blest spirit, wheresoe’er thy flight,
Through rolling worlds, or fields of liquid light,
May cherubs welcome their expected guest;
May saints with songs receive thee to their rest:
May peace, that claim’d while here thy warmest love—
May blissful, endless peace be thine above!
Through rolling worlds, or fields of liquid light,
May cherubs welcome their expected guest;
May saints with songs receive thee to their rest:
May peace, that claim’d while here thy warmest love—
May blissful, endless peace be thine above!
Song.—By a Woman.
Woman Speaker.
Our vows are heard! long, long to mortal eyes,
Her soul was fitting to its kindred skies:
Celestial-like her bounty fell,
Where modest want and patient sorrow dwell;
Want pass’d for merit at her door,
Unseen the modest were supplied;
Her constant pity fed the poor—
Then only poor, indeed, the day she died.
And, oh! for this, while sculpture decks thy shrine,
And art exhausts profusion round,
The tribute of a tear be mine,
A simple song, a sigh profound.
There Faith shall come, a pilgrim grey,39
To bless the tomb that wraps thy clay;
And calm Religion shall repair,
To dwell a weeping hermit there.
Truth, Fortitude, and Friendship shall agree
To blend their virtues, while they think of thee.
Her soul was fitting to its kindred skies:
Celestial-like her bounty fell,
Where modest want and patient sorrow dwell;
Want pass’d for merit at her door,
Unseen the modest were supplied;
Her constant pity fed the poor—
Then only poor, indeed, the day she died.
And, oh! for this, while sculpture decks thy shrine,
And art exhausts profusion round,
The tribute of a tear be mine,
A simple song, a sigh profound.
There Faith shall come, a pilgrim grey,39
To bless the tomb that wraps thy clay;
And calm Religion shall repair,
To dwell a weeping hermit there.
Truth, Fortitude, and Friendship shall agree
To blend their virtues, while they think of thee.
Air.—Chorus.—Pomposo.
Let us, let all the world agree
To profit by resembling thee.
To profit by resembling thee.
PART II.
Overture.—Pastorale.
Man Speaker.
Fast by that shore where Thames’ translucent stream
Reflects new glories on his breast,
Where, splendid as the youthful poet’s dream,
He forms a scene beyond Elysium blest—
Where sculptur’d elegance and native grace
Unite to stamp the beauties of the place,
While sweetly blending still are seen
The wavy lawn, the sloping green—
While novelty, with cautious cunning,
Through every maze of fancy running,
From China borrows aid to deck the scene—
There, sorrowing by the river’s glassy bed,
Forlorn, a rural band complain’d,
All whom Augusta’s bounty fed,
All whom her clemency sustain’d;
The good old sire, unconscious of decay,
The modest matron, clad in home-spun grey,
The military boy, the orphan’d maid,
The shatter’d veteran, now first dismay’d:
These sadly join beside the murmuring deep;
And, as they view
The towers of Kew,
Call on their Mistress—now no more—and weep.
Reflects new glories on his breast,
Where, splendid as the youthful poet’s dream,
He forms a scene beyond Elysium blest—
Where sculptur’d elegance and native grace
Unite to stamp the beauties of the place,
While sweetly blending still are seen
The wavy lawn, the sloping green—
While novelty, with cautious cunning,
Through every maze of fancy running,
From China borrows aid to deck the scene—
There, sorrowing by the river’s glassy bed,
Forlorn, a rural band complain’d,
All whom Augusta’s bounty fed,
All whom her clemency sustain’d;
The good old sire, unconscious of decay,
The modest matron, clad in home-spun grey,
The military boy, the orphan’d maid,
The shatter’d veteran, now first dismay’d:
These sadly join beside the murmuring deep;
And, as they view
The towers of Kew,
Call on their Mistress—now no more—and weep.
Chorus.
Ye shady walks, ye waving greens,
Ye nodding towers, ye fairy scenes—
Let all your echoes now deplore,
That she who form’d your beauties is no more!
Ye nodding towers, ye fairy scenes—
Let all your echoes now deplore,
That she who form’d your beauties is no more!
Man Speaker.
First of the train, the patient rustic came,
Whose callous hand had form’d the scene,
Bending at once with sorrow and with age,
With many a tear and many a sigh between;
Whose callous hand had form’d the scene,
Bending at once with sorrow and with age,
With many a tear and many a sigh between;
“And where,” he cried, “shall now my babes have bread,
Or how shall age support its feeble fire?
No lord will take me now, my vigour fled,
Nor can my strength perform what they require;
Each grudging master keeps the labourer bare—
A sleek and idle race is all their care.
My noble Mistress thought not so:
Her bounty, like the morning dew,
Unseen, though constant, us’d to flow;
And as my strength decay’d, her bounty grew.”
Or how shall age support its feeble fire?
No lord will take me now, my vigour fled,
Nor can my strength perform what they require;
Each grudging master keeps the labourer bare—
A sleek and idle race is all their care.
My noble Mistress thought not so:
Her bounty, like the morning dew,
Unseen, though constant, us’d to flow;
And as my strength decay’d, her bounty grew.”
Woman Speaker.
In decent dress, and coarsely clean,
The pious matron next was seen—
Clasp’d in her hand a godly book was borne,
By use and daily meditation worn;
That decent dress, this holy guide,
Augusta’s care had well supplied.
“And, ah!” she cries, all woe-begone,
“What now remains for me?
Oh! where shall weeping want repair,
To ask for charity?
Too late in life for me to ask,
And shame prevents the deed;
And tardy, tardy are the times
To succour, should I need.
But all my wants, before I spoke,
Were to my Mistress known;
She still reliev’d, nor sought for praise,
Contented with her own.
But every day her name I’ll bless—
My morning prayer, my evening song;
I’ll praise her while my life shall last,
A life that cannot last me long.”
The pious matron next was seen—
Clasp’d in her hand a godly book was borne,
By use and daily meditation worn;
That decent dress, this holy guide,
Augusta’s care had well supplied.
“And, ah!” she cries, all woe-begone,
“What now remains for me?
Oh! where shall weeping want repair,
To ask for charity?
Too late in life for me to ask,
And shame prevents the deed;
And tardy, tardy are the times
To succour, should I need.
But all my wants, before I spoke,
Were to my Mistress known;
She still reliev’d, nor sought for praise,
Contented with her own.
But every day her name I’ll bless—
My morning prayer, my evening song;
I’ll praise her while my life shall last,
A life that cannot last me long.”
Song.—By a Woman.
Each day, each hour, her name I’ll bless,
My morning and my evening song;
And when in death my vows shall cease,
My children shall the note prolong.
My morning and my evening song;
And when in death my vows shall cease,
My children shall the note prolong.
Man Speaker.
The hardy veteran, after struck the sight,
Scarr’d, mangled, maim’d in every part;
Lopp’d of his limbs in many a gallant fight,
In nought entire—except his heart;
Mute for a while, and sullenly distrest,
At last the impetuous sorrow fir’d his breast:
“Wild is the whirlwind rolling
O’er Afric’s sandy plain,
And wild the tempest howling
Along the billow’d main;
But every danger felt before—
The raging deep, the whirlwind’s roar—
Less dreadful struck me with dismay,
Than what I feel this fatal day.
Oh! let me fly a land that spurns the brave—
Oswego’s dreary shores shall be my grave;
I’ll seek that less inhospitable coast,
And lay my body where my limbs were lost.”
Scarr’d, mangled, maim’d in every part;
Lopp’d of his limbs in many a gallant fight,
In nought entire—except his heart;
Mute for a while, and sullenly distrest,
At last the impetuous sorrow fir’d his breast:
“Wild is the whirlwind rolling
O’er Afric’s sandy plain,
And wild the tempest howling
Along the billow’d main;
But every danger felt before—
The raging deep, the whirlwind’s roar—
Less dreadful struck me with dismay,
Than what I feel this fatal day.
Oh! let me fly a land that spurns the brave—
Oswego’s dreary shores shall be my grave;
I’ll seek that less inhospitable coast,
And lay my body where my limbs were lost.”
Song.—By a Man.
Woman Speaker.
In innocence and youth complaining,
Next appear’d a lovely maid—
Affliction o’er each feature reigning,
Kindly came in beauty’s aid;
Next appear’d a lovely maid—
Affliction o’er each feature reigning,
Kindly came in beauty’s aid;
Every grace that grief dispenses,
Every glance that warms the soul,
In sweet succession charm’d the senses,
While pity harmoniz’d the whole.
Every glance that warms the soul,
In sweet succession charm’d the senses,
While pity harmoniz’d the whole.
“The garland of beauty”—’tis thus she would say—
“No more shall my crook or my temples adorn;
I’ll not wear a garland—Augusta’s away,
I’ll not wear a garland until she return.
“No more shall my crook or my temples adorn;
I’ll not wear a garland—Augusta’s away,
I’ll not wear a garland until she return.
“But, alas! that return I never shall see,
The echoes of Thames shall my sorrows proclaim;
There promis’d a lover to come—but, O me!
’Twas death—’twas the death of my Mistress that came.
The echoes of Thames shall my sorrows proclaim;
There promis’d a lover to come—but, O me!
’Twas death—’twas the death of my Mistress that came.
Song.—By a Woman.—Pastorale.
With garlands of beauty the Queen of the May
No more will her crook or her temples adorn;
For who’d wear a garland when she is away,
When she is remov’d, and shall never return?
No more will her crook or her temples adorn;
For who’d wear a garland when she is away,
When she is remov’d, and shall never return?
On the grave of Augusta these garlands be plac’d,
We’ll rifle the spring of its earliest bloom;
And there shall the cowslip and primrose be cast,
And the new-blossom’d thorn shall whiten her tomb.
We’ll rifle the spring of its earliest bloom;
And there shall the cowslip and primrose be cast,
And the new-blossom’d thorn shall whiten her tomb.
Chorus.—Altro modo.
On the grave of Augusta this garland be plac’d,
We’ll rifle the spring of its earliest bloom;
And there shall the cowslip and primrose be cast,
And the tears of her country shall water her tomb.40
We’ll rifle the spring of its earliest bloom;
And there shall the cowslip and primrose be cast,
And the tears of her country shall water her tomb.40
FOOTNOTES:
38 Mother of King George III.; she died February 8th, 1772.
39 From Collins.
40 Advertisement prefixed to Threnodia Augustalis:—“The following may more properly be termed a compilation than a poem. It was prepared for the composer in little more than two days; and may therefore rather be considered as an industrious effort of gratitude, than of genius. In justice to the composer, it may likewise be right to inform the public, that the music was composed in a period of time equally short.”