Now that all hearts are glad, all faces bright, <br />Our aged Sovereign sits, to the ebb and flow <br />Of states and kingdoms, to their joy or woe, <br />Insensible. He sits deprived of sight, <br />And lamentably wrapt in twofold night, <br />Whom no weak hopes deceived; whose mind ensued, <br />Through perilous war, with regal fortitude, <br />Peace that should claim respect from lawless Might. <br />Dread King of Kings, vouchsafe a ray divine <br />To his forlorn condition! let thy grace <br />Upon his inner soul in mercy shine; <br />Permit his heart to kindle, and to embrace <br />(Though it were only for a moment's space) <br />The triumphs of this hour; for they are THINE!<br /><br />William Wordsworth<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/november-1813/
