Hands that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.
When love could teach a monarch to be wise, And gospel-light first dawn'd from Bullen's eyes.
No further seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode (There they alike in trembling hope repose), The bosom of his Father and his God.
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
Sorrow's faded form, and solitude behind.
I shall be but a shrimp of an author.