Epitaph on a Jacobite

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To my true king I offer'd free from stainCourage and faith; vain faith, and courage vain.For him I threw lands, honours, wealth, away,And one dear hope, that was more prized than they.For him I languish'd in a foreign clime,Gray-hair'd with sorrow in my manhood's prime;Heard on Lavernia Scargill's whispering trees,And pined by Arno for my lovelier Tees;Beheld each night my home in fever'd sleep,Each morning started from the dream to weep;Till God, who saw me tried too sorely, gaveThe resting-place I ask'd, an early grave.O thou, whom chance leads to this nameless stone,From that proud country which was once mine own,By those white cliffs I never more must see,By that dear language which I spake like thee,Forget all feuds, and shed one English tearO'er English dust. A broken heart lies here.

© Macaulay Thomas Babington