An Elegy
ON THE
QUEEN

WE have the heart rending task of announcing to our readers that Caroline, our beloved Queen is no more. She died at 10o'clock, Tuesday night, to the inexpressible grief of the whole British nation.

Her Majesty had been for some days past afflicted with an obstruction in the bowels. From the moment of her illness she entertained no hopes of recovery, but, observed to those around her, that she had undergone many trials & troubles but this would be the last.

When the melancholy tidings arrived in town the most poignant grief was visible in every countenance. Her Majesty was in her 53d year.—Aug. 8.

A LAMENT for CAROLINE,
the ROSE of England.

SHE dead!—great Caroline is dead!
All Britain shall her loss deplore,
Alas! the fairest flower is fled
The ROSE of England is no more.

Alas, Britons mourn, your last decline,
The ROSE of England is no more.

Behold her lying in her shroud,
In death's cold sleep—no noise or wake,
While many thousands weep aloud
In tears of sorrow for her sake.

With grief and trouble long oppes'd,
Nothing to her could joy impart.
Now all her cares are hush'd to rest
No longer beats her bleeding heart.

And they whose malice pier'd her breast,
Shall cause her eyes to weep no more,
Her sorrows all are snuck to rest,
Now she hath reach'd a happier shore.

There Heaven its beautes doth unfold,
There rich and poor alike doth meet.
There Angels sing to hrs of gold,
White Kneeling at their MAKER'S feet,
Thee she and Charlotte shall unite,
O never more to part again.

For past is Persecution's Night
And endless Dny for ever ring.

Her Father and Her Mother dear,
Her Brother and I good George I likewise,
With strains of love shall welcome her,
To dwell with them above the skies.

The poor in her a friend have lost,
A tender, feeling friend indeed,
For multitudes of those distressed
Did on her bounty daily fed.

O many were the griefs she bore,
An exil'd Wanderer she room'd,
Her enemies can't pursue her more,
They cannot hurt beyond—The Tomb.

A Nations bears shall wash her clay,
A Nations love her loss behind.

And while I live through life's short day
I'll weep for her—for her alone. Quod J. C.

Her Majesty is her last moments lent
for the sister of Du Mont and told he
that although her sister had done her
great injury, yet she freely forgave her
from her heart.

Catnach, Printer, 2, Monmouth Court.