His pious brother, sure the best Who ever bore that name, Was newly risen from his rest, And, with a fervent flame, His usual morning vows had just addrest, For his dear sovereign's health; And hoped to have them heard, In long increase of years, In honour, fame, and wealth: Guiltless of greatness, thus he always prayed, Nor knew nor wished those vows he made, On his own head should be repaid. Soon as the ill-omen'd rumour reached his ear, (Ill news is winged with fate, and flies apace,) Who can describe the amazement of his face! Horror in all his pomp was there, Mute and magnificent, without a tear; And then the hero first was seen to fear. Half unarrayed he ran to his relief, So hasty and so artless was his grief: Approaching greatness met him with her charms Of power and future state; But looked so ghastly in a brother's fate, He shook her from his arms. Arrived within the mournful room, he saw A wild distraction, void of awe, And arbitrary grief unbounded by a law. God's image, God's anointed, lay Without motion, pulse, or breath, A senseless lump of sacred clay, An image now of death, Amidst his sad attendants' groans and cries, The lines of that adored forgiving face, Distorted from their native grace; An iron slumber sat on his majestic eyes. The pious duke--Forbear, audacious muse! No terms thy feeble art can use Are able to adorn so vast a woe: The grief of all the rest like subject-grief did show, His, like a sovereign's, did transcend; No wife, no brother, such a grief could know, Nor any name but friend. III.