Anna Laetitia Barbauld - On The King's Illness lyrics

Rest, rest, afflicted spirit, quickly pa** 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. And therefore falls the tear from eyes not used To gaze on kings with admiration fond. And thou hast knelt at meek Religion's shrine With no mock homage, and hast owned her rights Sacred in every breast: and therefore rise, Affectionate, for thee, the orisons And mingled prayers, alike from vaulted domes Whence the loud organ peals, and raftered roofs Of humbler worship.—Still remembering this, A nation's pity and a nation's love Linger beside thy couch, in this the day Of thy sad visitation, veiling faults Of erring judgement, and not will perverse. Yet, O that thou hadst closed the wounds of war! That had been praise to suit a higher strain. Farewell the years rolled down the gulf of time! Thy name has chronicled a long bright page Of England's story; and perhaps the babe Who opens, as thou closest thine, his eyes On this eventful world, when aged grown, Musing on times gone by, shall sigh and say, Shaking his thin grey hairs, whitened with grief, Our fathers' days were happy. Fare thee well! My thread of life has even run with thine For many a lustre; and thy closing day I contemplate, not mindless of my own, Nor to its call reluctant.