AN EXERCISE, CONTAINING A DIALOGUE and ODE Sacred to the Memory of His late gracious Majesty, GEORGE II.

Performed at the public COMMENCEMENT in the COLLEGE of PHILADELPHIA, May 23d, 1761.

The ODE written and set to MUSIC by FRANCIS HOPKINSON, Esq M. A. in said College.

PHILADELPHIA: Printed by W. DUNLAP, in Market-Street, MDCCLXI.



WHAT means that Lock of Woe, that Head reclin'd,
Those folded Arms, with which I meet Amyntor?
That Eye which wont, with Love and sparkling Joy,
To beam, munificent, on ev'ry Friend,
Why bends it thus in Sorrow to the Ground,
As if no View could please but Dust and Earth?
All Things, Eugenio, are but Dust and Earth!
Even Kings themselves—those Demi-gods enthron'd,
Rulers of Empire, [...] of War,
At whose avenging Nod the guilty tremble,
Nations are doom'd, and Millions live or die—
Even Kings themselves—are nought but Dust and Earth!
Who knows not that Amyntor? But why damp
This festive Day with such untimely Lecture?
What festive Day, can Britain or her Sons
Now celebrate? The Voice of Joy is fled.
[Page 4]Let no rash Hand, with Myrtle or with Bay,
Or other flaunting Foliage of the Grove,
Presume to deck these Walls. Come baleful Yew
And weeping Cypress, from your Midnight Shades!
None other Wreathe but yours, from Hill or Dale,
Be pluckt to circle Academic Brow.
See pale Britannia, on the wave-worn Shore,
Incumbent o'er her massy Trident, weeps;
And fond Iërne, Sister of her Grief,
Calls from her Harp sad Notes of Doric Strain.
From Pole to Pole, far as old Ocean heaves
His troubled Wave, and bears the British Flag,
The Voice of Woe is heard. Even here, remote,
The awful Genius of these barbarous Woods,
That went to Roam from Indian Height to Height,
With Nature's Self, in Frolic ever new,
Tears from his hoary Head his feathery Crown,
And breaks his Arrows, and his Quiver rends.
In mystic Words, and metaphoric Strains,
Why would Amyntor strive to hide the Cause
Of such unbounded Sorrow?
No, Eugenio!
Amyntor would not hide, but speak the Cause,
Could Words be found to measure forth his Grief,
And ease his labouring Breast. The godlike GEORGE,
The Friend of Freedom, and the Scourge of Tyrants,
[Page 5]The Father of his Country—sleeps in Dust!
Of Import dreadful, from Britannia's Coast,
Confirm'd and full, the mournful Tidings come.
Illustrious Monarch! Not the Roman Boast,
The generous TITUS, Joy of human Kind;
Nor Names of later Date, WILLIAM and HENRY,
Or ALFRED'S Self, shall fill a brighter Page
In Fame's eternal Roll, than shall the Name
Of gracious GEORGE! Beneath his equal Sway,
Oppression WAS NOT▪ Justice poiz'd her Scale;
No Law was trampled, and no Right denv'd;
The Peasant flourish'd, and the Merchant smil'd.
And oh! my Friend, to what amazing Height
Of sudden Grandeur, did his nursing Care
Up-raise these COLONIES; beyond whate'er
Of ancient or of modern Times is told.
Prepare we, then, due Elegies to frame,
Such as may well accord to Heart of Woe.
That Work is done. Behold the goodly Choir,
With Voice united to the deep-ton'd Note
Of swelling Organ, rise, in Act, to sing
The consecrated Lay. Hark! hark! they strike
[Page 6]


WHY looks the visionary Maid so sad?
Ah! why Britannia thus in Sable clad?
Oh speak the Cause from whence thy Sorrows flow,
That by partaking we may ease thy Woe!
Lend, lend your Tears ye Virgin Train,
Whilst Music swells her softest Strain;
Oh let the solemn Dirge resound,
And spread religious Sorrow round;
With me the deep-felt Loss deplore,
My Soul my [...]:
Then let the solemn Dirge begin,
Whilst we our Voices join,
Thro' Earth's Extent to spread his Name,
Our Woe shall equal thine.
The glorious Sun, Britannia's King,
Withdraws his golden Light;
[Page 7]His setting Ray
Glides swift away,
And yields to conqu'ring Night.
See in the deep and dreary Tomb
His mortal Part must lie;
And ev'ry Bell
Now tolls his Knell,
Tears flow from ev'ry Eye.
:S: Far o'er the wild and watry Waste
Hear the loud Cannons roar,
Whilst Winds convey
The Sounds away,
And die along the Shore.
But lo! his sainted Soul ascends,
High thro' th'etherial Road;
And Britain's Sighs
Like Incense rise
To waft him to his God. :S:
How soft the Power of Music to assuage
The Pangs of Grief! like Balm of costly Price
Pour'd o'er the streaming Wound. Since, then, my [...],
Due Tribute has been paid to Royal Worth
And Royal Dust; it boots us not to spend
Our fleeting Hours in unavailing Sorrow.
[Page 8]See! by the Bounty of all-ruling Heaven,
Another GEORGE to happy Britons given!
Gay Youth and Glory beam around his Throne,
And glad Britannia claims him as her own.
Let us embrace what Heaven in Kindness gives,
For GEORGE the Second in the Third still lives.

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