To live—alas!—to mourn!
Weep, Anglia, weep!—thy monarch's dead!
To heav'n his spirit's flown;
And he whose hands his blood have shed
Will mount thy vacant throne.
He reigns!—but mark! how self-reproach
Pervades his inmost breast;—
And pangs of sad remorse encroach
Upon his fever'd rest.
He lives—but life has little left,