Who can repress the sympathetic tear,

Oe'r youth, and virtue, on the mournful bier;

Stretch'd pale by Death in earliest ripen'd years

Britons repine, and melt in sorrows tears,

Yes Albion weep, your brightest hope is fled,

For lovely Charlotte joins the band of Dead;

With her youth, Beauty, loveliness are gone

And hapless Britons left in gloom forlorn,

Without a youthful race to wear the Crown

Illustrious and to name her great renown,

But ah! our lips shall sing her every praise

And to the skies such virtuous goodness raise.