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Title: The Tears Of A Grateful People
Author: Samuel Taylor Coleridge [
More Titles by Coleridge]
A Hebrew Dirge and Hymn, chaunted in the Great Synagogue. St. James' pl. Aldgate, on the Day of the Funeral of King George III. of blessed memory. By Hyman Hurwitz of Highgate, Translated by a Friend.
_Dirge_
Oppress'd, confused, with grief and pain,
And inly shrinking from the blow,
In vain I seek the dirgeful strain,
The wonted words refuse to flow.
A fear in every face I find,
Each voice is that of one who grieves;
And all my Soul, to grief resigned,
Reflects the sorrow it receives.
The Day-Star of our glory sets!
Our King has breathed his latest breath!
Each heart its wonted pulse forgets,
As if it own'd the pow'r of death.
Our Crown, our heart's Desire is fled!
Britannia's glory moults its wing!
Let us with ashes on our head,
Raise up a mourning for our King.
Lo! of his beams the Day-Star shorn,[436:2]
Sad gleams the Moon through cloudy veil!
The Stars are dim! Our Nobles mourn;
The Matrons weep, their Children wail.
No age records a King so just,
His virtues numerous as his days;
The Lord Jehovah was his trust,
And truth with mercy ruled his ways.
His Love was bounded by no Clime;
Each diverse Race, each distant Clan
He govern'd by this truth sublime,
'God only knows the heart--not man.'
His word appall'd the sons of pride,
Iniquity far wing'd her way;
Deceit and fraud were scatter'd wide,
And truth resum'd her sacred sway.
He sooth'd the wretched, and the prey
From impious tyranny he tore;
He stay'd th' Usurper's iron sway,
And bade the Spoiler waste no more.
Thou too, Jeshurun's Daughter! thou,
Th' oppress'd of nations and the scorn!
Didst hail on his benignant brow
A safety dawning like the morn.
The scoff of each unfeeling mind,
Thy doom was hard, and keen thy grief;
Beneath his throne, peace thou didst find,
And blest the hand that gave relief.
E'en when a fatal cloud o'erspread
The moonlight splendour of his sway,
Yet still the light remain'd, and shed
Mild radiance on the traveller's way.
But he is gone--the Just! the Good!
Nor could a Nation's pray'r delay
The heavenly meed, that long had stood
His portion in the realms of day.
Beyond the mighty Isle's extent
The mightier Nation mourns her Chief:
Him Judah's Daughter shall lament,
In tears of fervour, love and grief.
Britannia mourns in silent grief;
Her heart a prey to inward woe.
In vain she strives to find relief,
Her pang so great, so great the blow.
Britannia! Sister! woe is me!
Full fain would I console thy woe.
But, ah! how shall I comfort thee,
Who need the balm I would bestow?
United then let us repair,
As round our common Parent's grave;
And pouring out our heart in prayer,
Our heav'nly Father's mercy crave.
Until Jehovah from his throne
Shall heed his suffering people's fears;
Shall turn to song the Mourner's groan,
To smiles of joy the Nation's tears.
Praise to the Lord! Loud praises sing!
And bless Jehovah's righteous hand!
Again he bids a George, our King,
Dispense his blessings to the Land.
_Hymn_
O thron'd in Heav'n! Sole King of kings,
Jehovah! hear thy Children's prayers and sighs!
Thou Binder of the broken heart! with wings
Of healing on thy people rise!
Thy mercies, Lord, are sweet;
And Peace and Mercy meet,
Before thy Judgment seat:
Lord, hear us! we entreat!
When angry clouds thy throne surround,
E'en from the cloud thou bid'st thy mercy shine:
And ere thy righteous vengeance strikes the wound,
Thy grace prepares the balm divine!
Thy mercies, Lord, are sweet;
etc.
The Parent tree thy hand did spare--
It fell not till the ripen'd fruit was won:
Beneath its shade the Scion flourish'd fair,
And for the Sire thou gav'st the Son.
etc.
This thy own Vine, which thou didst rear,
And train up for us from the royal root,
Protect, O Lord! and to the Nations near
Long let it shelter yield, and fruit,
etc.
Lord, comfort thou the royal line:
Let Peace and Joy watch round us hand and hand.
Our Nobles visit with thy grace divine,
And banish sorrow from the land!
Thy mercies, Lord, are sweet;
And Peace and Mercy meet
Before thy Judgment seat;
Lord, hear us! we entreat!
1820.
[The end]
Samuel Taylor Coleridge's poem: Tears Of A Grateful People
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