"In the first year of Freedom's second dawn
Died George the Third; although no tyrant, one
Who shielded tyrants, till each sense withdrawn
Left him nor mental nor external sun;
A better farmer ne'er brushed dew from lawn,
A worse king never left a realm undone.
He died—but left his subjects still behind,
One half as mad, and t'other no less blind."[3]
Yet, notwithstanding all the mistakes George III made, and all the mischief he did, his reign ended in a blaze of glory. England had survived the French Revolution without disastrous effects; and had taken a leading part in the subjugation of Napoleon. Nelson and Wellington, Wordsworth and Keats, Fox and Pitt, reflected their glory and the splendour of their actions upon the country of their birth. Yet—such is the irony of fate at its bitterest—while the world acknowledged the supremacy of England on land, at sea, and in commerce, while a whole people, delighted with magnificent achievements, acclaimed their ruler, crying lustily "God save the King," George, in whose name these great deeds were done, was but "a crazy old blind man in Windsor Tower."
"Give me a royal niche—it is my due,
The virtuousest king the realm ever knew.
I, through a decent reputable life,
Was constant to plain food and a plain wife.
Ireland I risked, and lost America;
But dined on legs of mutton every day.
My brain, perhaps, might be a feeble part;
But yet I think I had an English heart.
When all the Kings were prostrate, I alone
Stood face to face against Napoleon;
Nor ever could the ruthless Frenchman forge
A fetter for old England and old George.
I let loose flaming Nelson on his fleets;
I met his troops with Wellesley's bayonets.
Triumphant waved my flag on land and sea:
Where was the King in Europe like to me?