Classic Poem

High on the throne of monarchy so late
Revers'd, he sits in pomp majestical,
By nature form'd to win his way to greatness.
Prompt to conceive and undertake whate'er
With difficulty and hazard might be atchiev'd
By mortal prowess; in the braying din
Of civil strife, or on th' embattled plain,
Midst charging squadrons and the cannon's roar,
Alike undaunted he—nor for the means
Car'd, so he attain'd the height he soar'd to.
For no soft pang of pity or remorse
E'er touched his rugged bosom; witness thou
Ravag'd Ausonia, and ye fertile plains
Of Egypt, whitening with th' untombed bones
Of those his undistinguishing revenge
Gave to the edge of the sword.—Cloudy his brow,
Haggard his visage, and bespeaks a mind
Where Care and cold Mistrust for ever dwell;
Unsated Pride, and fierce Ambition, still
Hatching pernicious counsels to disturb
The peace of wasted Europe, and provoke
The storms which best uphold his doubtful sway.
Yet he can well dissemble; can disguise
His dangerous intent, confounding still
His haughty projects with the general good.
So reigns he sovran o'er a people long
By madding Faction vex'd, and dire misrule:
So reigns he—rais'd by deeds of high renown
And favouring chance, girt with the pomp of war.
But not unvisited, if Fame say true,
Of fearful thoughts, that hover round his couch.
And mar his midnight slumbers; nor secure
From vengeance ever plotting to destroy
His usurpation, and the just disdain
That loyalty and honour feel to bend
Submissive at the shrine of tyrannous power.
Nor think we that the Gods look reekless on,
While he enjoys the throne of lawful kings,
Who hath so oft blasphem'd them, and bow'd down
To monstrous deities: and a day will come
For retribution, when the hand of Heaven
Shall blast his vaunted fortune, and his sword,
Wherein he trusted, shall avenge the blood
That cries against him, proving to vain man,
That, though successful guilt triumphs awhile,
Eternal Justice will at length assert
Its rights, and pure Religion vindicate
Her holy altars and unspotted name.