POEMS.
103
Lo! round his throne what hideous Phantoms throng!—
There wild Ambition bids his firebrands glare!
There leering Flattery pours her Syren song!
The rank witch Luxury plants her nightshade there!
There wild Ambition bids his firebrands glare!
There leering Flattery pours her Syren song!
The rank witch Luxury plants her nightshade there!
And there Suspicion rolls her eagle eye,
Weighs every word, and starts at every breath;
And Treason there in robes of varying dye,
Through paths mysterious guides the spectre Death!
Weighs every word, and starts at every breath;
And Treason there in robes of varying dye,
Through paths mysterious guides the spectre Death!
Nor hope, fond Monarch, by thy Subjects blest,
Their grateful arms will guard thy valued life,
Thy martial fame appal the Assassin's breast,
Thy patriot virtue blunt his brandished knife:
Their grateful arms will guard thy valued life,
Thy martial fame appal the Assassin's breast,
Thy patriot virtue blunt his brandished knife:
Could Valour aught avail, or Public-Love,
France had not mourned Navarre's brave Henry slain;
If wit or beauty might compassion move,
The Rose of Scotland had not wept in vain.
France had not mourned Navarre's brave Henry slain;
If wit or beauty might compassion move,
The Rose of Scotland had not wept in vain.
