Between them stands another sceptred thing—
It moves, it reigns — in all but name, a king:
Charles to his people, Henry to his wife,
—In him the double tyrant starts to life:
Justice and death have mix'd their dust in vain,
Each royal vampire wakes to life again.
Ah, what can tombs avail!— since these disgorge
The blood and dust of both — to mould a George.