THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS.1

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF HER LATE ROYAL HIGHNESS

THE PRINCESS DOWAGER OF WALES.

SPOKEN AND SUNG IN THE GREAT ROOM IN SOHO SQUARE, THURSDAY, FEB. 20, 1772.

ADVERTISEMENT.

THE following may more properly be termed a compilation than a poem. It was prepared for the composer in little more than two days; and may therefore rather be considered as an industrious effort of gratitude than of genius.

In justice to the composer, it may likewise be right to inform the public that the music was adapted in a period of time equally short.

SPEAKERS.

MR. LEE AND MRS. BELLAMY.

SINGERS.

MR. CHAMPNES, MR. DINE, AND MISS JAMESON.

The music prepared and adapted by Signor Vento.

1 This poem was first printed by Mr. Chalmers from a copy given by Goldsmith to his friend, Joseph Cradock, Esq. of Gumley, author of Zobeide, &c., and lent to Mr. Chalmers by Mr. Nicholls. v. Br. Poets, vol. xvi. p. 509.

When truth and virtue reach the skies, 'Tis ours to weep the want below.

CHORUS.

When truth and virtue, &c.

MAN SPEAKER.

The praise attending pomp and power,

The incense given to kings,

Are but the trappings of an hour,

Mere transitory things.

The base bestow them; but the good agree

To spurn the venal gifts as flattery.

But when to pomp and power are join'd

An equal dignity of mind;

When titles are the smallest claim;

When wealth, and rank, and noble blood,

But aid the power of doing good,

Then all their trophies last and flattery turns

to fame.

Blest spirit thou, whose fame, just born to bloom, Shall spread and flourish from the tomb,

How hast thou left mankind for heaven!
Even now reproach and faction mourn,
And, wondering how their rage was born,
Request to be forgiven!

Alas! they never had thy hate:
Unmov'd in conscious rectitude,

Thy towering mind self-centred stood,
Nor wanted man's opinion to be great.
In vain, to charm thy ravish'd sight,
A thousand gifts would fortune send;
In vain, to drive thee from the right,
A thousand sorrows urged thy end:

Like some well-fashion'd arch thy patience stood,
And purchased strength from its increasing load.
Pain met thee like a friend to set thee free,
Affliction still is virtue's opportunity!

Virtue, on herself relying,

Every passion hush'd to rest,

Loses every pain of dying
In the hopes of being blest.
Every added pang she suffers
Some increasing good bestows,
And

every shock that malice offers Only rocks her to repose.

SONG. BY A MAN AFFETUOSO.

Virtue on herself relying, &c.

to

Only rocks her to repose.

WOMAN SPEAKER.

Yet, ah! what terrors frown'd upon her fate, -
Death with its formidable band,

Fever, and pain, and pale consumptive care,
Determined took their stand.

Nor did the cruel ravagers design

To finish all their efforts at a blow;

But, mischievously slow,

They robb'd the relic and defac'd the shrine.
With unavailing grief,

Despairing of relief,

Her weeping children round

Beheld each hour

Death's growing power,

And trembled as he frown'd.

As helpless friends who view from shore
The labouring ship, and hear the tempest roar,
While winds and waves their wishes cross,

They stood, while hope and comfort fail,
Not to assist, but to bewail

The inevitable loss.

Relentless tyrant, at thy call

How do the good, the virtuous, fall!

Truth, beauty, worth, and all that most engage, But wake thy vengeance, and provoke thy rage.

SONG. BY A MAN- BASSO, STACCATO, SPIRITUOSO.

When vice my dart and scythe supply,

How great a king of terrors I!

If folly, fraud, your hearts engage,
Tremble, ye mortals, at my rage!

Fall, round me fall, ye little things,
Ye statesmen, warriors, poets, kings!
If virtue fail her counsel sage,
Tremble, ye mortals, at my rage!

MAN SPEAKER.

Yet let that wisdom, urged by her example,
Teach us to estimate what all must suffer:
Let us prize death as the best gift of nature;
As a safe inn, where weary travellers,

When they have journey'd through a world of cares,
May put off life, and be at rest for ever.

Groans, weeping friends, indeed, and gloomy sables,

May oft distract us with their sad solemnity:
The preparation is the executioner.

Death, when unmask'd, shows me a friendly face,
And is a terror only at a distance:

For as the line of life conducts me on

To death's great court, the prospect seems more fair.

"Tis nature's kind retreat, that's always open
To take us in when we have drain'd the cup
Of life, or worn our days to wretchedness.
In that secure, serene retreat,

Where all the humble, all the great,

Promiscuously recline;

Where, wildly huddled to the eye,

The beggar's pouch and prince's purple lie;
May every bliss be thine!