And die upon his coronation day?
Bright round his head immortal glories play;
’Tis joy to think he has not lived in vain;
For every tear that he has wiped away,
An angel comes to cool his burning brain,
Attend his dying couch, and mitigate his pain.
XVII.
My brother cared not for this world’s applause;
He long’d to be a minister of God,
Well furnish’d for his work. His object was