If ever to forget thee I have power, 440 May Heaven desert me at my latest hour! Still satire bids my bosom beat to arms, And throb with irresistible alarms. Like some full river charged with falling showers, Still o'er my breast her swelling deluge pours. But rest and silence now, who wait beside, With their strong flood-gates bar the impetuous tide. [Footnote 1: This poem was intended by the author to be a political satire on Lord Chatham, Wilkes, and Churchill, and to refute the opinions expressed in the poems of Churchill.] [Footnote 2: 'Chaplains,' 'Privileges,' 'Scourges:' certain poems intended to be very satirical.] A POEM, SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS FREDERIC PRINCE OF WALES. From the big horror of War's hoarse alarms, And the tremendous clang of clashing arms, Descend, my Muse! a deeper scene to draw (A scene will hold the listening world in awe) Is my intent: Melpomene inspire, While, with sad notes, I strike the trembling lyre! And may my lines with easy motion flow, Melt as they move, and fill each heart with woe: Big with the sorrow it describes, my song, In solemn pomp, majestic, move along. 10 O bear me to some awful silent glade, Where cedars form an unremitting shade; Where never track of human feet was known; Where never cheerful light of Phoebus shone; Where chirping linnets warble tales of love, And hoarser winds howl murmuring through the grove; Where some unhappy wretch aye mourns his doom, Deep melancholy wandering through the gloom; Where solitude and meditation roam, And where no dawning glimpse of hope can come! 20 Place me in such an unfrequented shade, To speak to none but with the mighty dead; To assist the pouring rains with brimful eyes, And aid hoarse howling Boreas with my sighs. When Winter's horrors left Britannia's isle, And Spring in blooming vendure 'gan to smile; When rills, unbound, began to purl along, And warbling larks renew'd the vernal song; When sprouting roses, deck'd in crimson dye, Began to bloom, ... 30 Hard fate! then, noble Frederic, didst thou die: Doom'd by inexorable fate's decree, The approaching summer ne'er on earth to see: In thy parch'd vitals burning fevers rage, Whose flame the virtue of no herbs assuage; No cooling medicine can its heat allay, Relentless destiny cries, "No delay!" Ye powers! and must a prince so noble die? (Whose equal breathes not under the ambient sky:) Ah! must he die, then, in youth's full-blown prime, 40 Cut by the scythe of all-devouring Time? Yes, fate has doom'd! his soul now leaves its weight, And all are under the decree of fate; The irrevocable doom of destiny Pronounced, "All mortals must submissive die." The princes wait around with weeping eyes, And the dome echoes all with piercing cries: