II.
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is pious brother, sure the bestWho 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 charmsOf 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 sawA wild distraction, void of awe,And arbitrary grief unbounded by a law.God's image, God's anointed, layWithout 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 useAre 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.
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