When the young Eagle, with exulting eye,

Has learn’d to dare the splendor of the sky,

And leave the Alps beneath him in his course,

To bathe his crest in morn’s empyreal source,

Will his free wing, from that majestic height,

Descend to follow some wild meteor’s light,

Which far below, with evanescent fire,

Shines to delude, and dazzles to expire?4

No! still thro’ clouds he wins his upward way

And proudly claims his heritage of day!

 10

—And shall the spirit, on whose ardent gaze,

The day-spring from on high hath pour’d its blaze,

Turn from that pure effulgence, to the beam

Of earth-born light, that sheds a treacherous gleam,

Luring the wanderer from the star of faith,

To the deep valley of the shades of death?5

What bright exchange, what treasure shall be given,

For the high birth-right of its hope in Heaven?

If lost the gem which empires could not buy,

What yet remains?—a dark eternity!

 20

Is earth still Eden?—might a Seraph guest,

Still, midst its chosen bowers delighted rest?6

Is all so cloudless and so calm below,

We seek no fairer scenes than life can show?

That the cold Sceptic, in his pride elate,

Rejects the promise of a brighter state,

And leaves the rock, no tempests shall displace,

To rear his dwelling on the quicksand’s base?7

Votary of doubt! Then join the festal throng,

Bask in the sunbeam, listen to the song,

 30

Spread the rich board, and fill the wine-cup high8

And bind the wreath ere yet the roses die!

’Tis well, thine eye is yet undimm’d by time,

And thy heart bounds, exulting in its prime;

Smile then unmov’d at Wisdom’s warning voice,

And, in the glory of thy strength, rejoice!

But life hath sterner tasks; e’en youth’s brief hours,

Survive the beauty of their loveliest flowers;

The founts of joy, where pilgrims rest from toil,

Are few and distant on the desert soil;

 40

The soul’s pure fame the breath of storms must fan,

And pain and sorrow claim their nursling—Man!

Earth’s noblest sons the bitter cup have shar’d—9

Proud child of reason! How art thou prepar’d?

When years, with silent night, thy frame have bow’d,10

And o’er thy spirit cast their wintry cloud,

Will Memory soothe thee on thy bed of pain,

With the bright images of pleasure’s train?

Yes! as the sight of some far distant shore,

Whose well-known scenes his foot shall tread no more,

 50

Would cheer the seaman, by the eddying wave

Drawn, vain struggling, to th’unfathom’d grave!11

Shall Hope, the faithful cherub, hear thy call,

She, who like Heaven’s own sunbeam, smiles for all?

Will she speak comfort?—Thou hast shorn her plume,

That might have rais’d thee far above the tomb,

And hush’d the only voice whose angel tone

Soothes when all melodies of joy are flown!

For she was born beyond the stars to soar,

And kindling at the source of life, adore;

 60

Thou couldst not, mortal! Rivet to the earth

Her eye, whose beam is of celestial birth;

She dwells with those who leave her pinion free,

And sheds the dews of heaven on all but thee.

Yet few there are, so lonely, so bereft,

But some true heart, that beats to theirs, is left,

And, haply, one whose strong affections power

Unchang’d may triumph through misfortune’s hour,

Still with fond care supports thy languid head,

And keeps unwearied vigils by thy bed.

 70

But thou! whose thoughts have no blessed home above,

Captive of earth, and canst thou dare to love?

To nurse such feelings as delight to rest,

Within that hallow’d shrine—a parent’s breast,

To fix each hope, concentrate every tie,

On one frail idol,—destined but to die,

Yet mock the faith that points to worlds of light,

Where sever’d souls, made perfect, re-unite?

Then tremble! cling to every passing joy,

Twin’d with the life a moment may destroy!

 80

If there be sorrow in a parting tear,

Still let “for ever” vibrate in thine ear!12

If some bright hour on rapture’s wing hath flown,

Find more than anguish in the thought—’tis gone!

Go! to a voice such magic influence give,

Thou canst not lose its melody, and live;

And make an eye the lode-star of thy soul,

And let a glance the springs of thought controul;

Gaze on a mortal form with fond delight,

Till the fair vision mingles with thy sight;

 90

There seek thy blessings, there repose thy trust,

Lean on the willow, idolize the dust!

Then, when thy treasure best repays thy care,

Think on that dread “for ever”—and despair!13

And oh! no strange, unwonted storm there needs,

To wreck at once thy fragile ark of reeds.

Watch well its course—explore with anxious eye,

Each little cloud that floats along the sky –

Is the blue canopy serenely fair?

Yet may the thunderbolt unseen be there,

 100

And the bark sink, when peace and sunshine sleep

On the smooth bosom of the waveless deep!

Yes! ere a sound, a sign, announce thy fate,

May the blow fall which makes thee desolate!

Not always heaven’s destroying angel shrouds

His awful form in tempests and in clouds,

He fills the summer-air with latent power,

He hides his venom in the scented flower,

He steals upon thee in the Zephyr’s breath,

And festal garlands veil the shafts of death!

 110

Where art thou then, who thus didst rashly cast

Thine all upon the mercy of the blast,

And vainly hope the tree of life14 to find

Rooted in sands that flit before the wind?

Is not that earth thy spirit lov’d so well,

It wish’d not in a brighter sphere to dwell,

Beome a desert now, a vale of gloom,

O’ershadow’d with the midnight of the tomb?

Where shalt thou turn?—it is not thine to raise

To yon pure heaven, thy calm confiding gaze,

 120

No gleam reflected from that realm of rest,

Steals on the darkness of thy troubled breast,

Not for thine eye shall Faith divinely shed

Her glory round the image of the dead;

And if, when slumber’s lonely couch is prest,

The form departed be thy spirit’s guest,

It bears no light from purer world’s to this;15

Thy future lends not e’en a dream of bliss.

But who shall dare the Gate of Life to close,

Or say, thus far the stream of mercy flows?

 130

That font unseal’d, whose boundless waves embrace

Each distant isle, and visit every race,

Pours from the Throne of God its current free,

Nor yet denies th’immortal draught to thee.

Oh! while the doom impends, not yet decreed,

While yet th’Atoner hath not ceas’d to plead,

While still, suspended by a single hair,16

The sharp bright sword hangs quivering in the air,

Bow down thy heart to Him, who will not break

The bruised reed; e’en yet, awake! awake!

 140

Patient, because Eternal,17 He may hear

Thy prayer of agony with pitying ear,

And send his chastening spirit from above,

O’er the deep chaos of thy soul to move.

But seek thou mercy thro’ His name alone,

To whose unequall’d sorrow none was shown.

Thro’ Him, who here in mortal garb abode,

As man to suffer, and to heal, as God;

And, born the sons of utmost time to bless,

Endur’d all scorn, and aided all distress.

 150

Call thou on Him—for He, in human form,

Hath walk’d the waves of Life, and still’d the storm.18

He, when her hour of lingering grace was past,

O’er Salem wept, relenting to the last,19

Wept with such tears as Judah’s monarch pour’d

O’er his lost child, ungrateful, yet deplor’d;

And, offering guiltless blood that guilt might live,

Taught from his Cross the lesson—to forgive!

Call thou on Him—his prayer e’en then arose,

Breath’d in unpitied anguish, for his foes.20

 160

And haste!—ere bursts the lightning from on high,

Fly to the City of thy Refuge, fly!21

So shall th’Avenger turn his steps away,

And sheath his falchion, baffled of his prey.

Yet must long days roll on, ere peace shall brood,

As the soft Halcyon, o’er thy heart subdued;

Ere yet the dove of Heaven descend, to shed

Inspiring influence o’er thy fallen head.

—He, who hath pin’d in dungeons, midst the shade

Of such deep night as man for man hath made,

 170

Thro’ lingering years; if call’d at length to be,

Once more, by nature’s boundless charter, free,

Shrinks feebly back, the blaze of noon to shun,

Fainting at day, and blasted by the sun!22

Thus, when the captive soul hath long remain’d

In its own dread abyss of darkness chain’d,

If the Deliverer, in his might, at last,

Its fetters, born of earth, to earth should cast,

The beam of truth o’erpowers its dazzled sight,

Trembling it sinks, and finds no joy in light.

 180

But this will pass away—that spark of mind,

Within thy frame unquenchably enshrin’d,

Shall live to triumph in its brightening ray,

Born to be foster’d with etherial day.23

Then wilt thou bless the hour, when o’er thee pass’d,

On wing of flame, the purifying blast,

And sorrow’s voice, thro’ paths before untrod,

Like Sinai’s trumpet, call’d thee to thy God!

But hop’st thou, in thy panoply of pride,

Heaven’s messenger, affliction, to deride?

 190

In thine own strength unaided to defy,

With Stoic smile, the arrows of the sky?24

Torn by the vulture, fetter’d to the rock,

Still, Demigod! the tempest wilt thou mock?25

Alas! the tower that crests the mountain’s brow,

A thousand years may awe the vale below,

Yet not the less be shattered on its height,

By one dread moment of the earthquake’s might!

A thousand pangs thy bosom might have borne,

In silent fortitude, or haughty scorn,

 200

Till comes the one, the master-anguish, sent

To break the mighty heart that ne’er was bent.

Oh! what is nature’s strength? the vacant eye,

By mind deserted, hath a dread reply!

The wild delirious laughter of despair,

The mirth of frenzy26—seek an answer there!

Turn not away, tho’ pity’s cheek grow pale,

Close not thine ear against their awful tale.

They tell thee reason, wandering from the ray

Of Faith, the blazing pillar of her way,27

 210

In the mid-darkness of the stormy wave,

Forsook the struggling soul she could not save!28

Weep not, sad moralist! o’er desert plains,

Strew’d with the wrecks of grandeur29—mouldering fanes

Arches of triumph, long with weeds o’ergrown,

And regal cities, now the serpent’s own:

Earth has more awful ruins—one lost mind,

Whose star is quench’d,30 hath lessons for mankind,

Of deeper import than each prostrate dome,

Mingling its marble with the dust of Rome.31

 220

But who with eye unshrinking shall explore

That waste, illum’d by reason’s beam no more?

Who pierce the deep, mysterious clouds that roll

Around the shatter’d temple of the soul,

Curtain’d with midnight? low its columns lie,

And dark the chambers of its imag’ry,32

Sunk are its idols now—and God alone

May rear the fabrick, by their fall o’erthrown!

Yet, from its inmost shrine, by storms laid bare,

Is heard an oracle that cries—“Beware!

 230

Child of the dust! but ransom’d of the skies!

One breath of Heaven—and thus thy glory dies!

Haste, ere the hour of doom, draw night to Him

Who dwells above between the cherubim!”

Spirit dethroned! and check’d in mid career,

Son of the morning! exil’d from thy sphere,

Tell us thy tale!—Perchance thy race was run

With Science, in the chariot of the sun;

Free as the winds the paths of space to sweep,

Traverse the untrodden kingdoms of the deep,

 240

And search the laws that nature’s springs controul,33

There tracing all—save Him who guides the whole!

Haply thine eye its ardent glance had cast34

Thro’ the dim shades, the portals of the past;

By the bright lamp of thought thy care had fed

From the far beacon-lights of ages fled,

The depths of time exploring, to retrace

The glorious march of many a vanish’d race.

Or did thy power pervade the living lyre,

Till its deep chords became instinct with fire,

 250

Silence all meaner notes, and swell’d on high,

Full and alone, their mighty harmony,

While wore each passion from its cell profound,

And nations startled at th’electric sound?35

Lord of th’Ascendant! what avails it now,

Tho’ bright the laurels wav’d upon thy brow?

What, tho’ thy name, thro’ distant empires heard,

Bade the heart wound, as doth a battle-word?

Was it for this thy still unwearied eye,

Kept vigil with the watch-fires of the sky,

 260

To make the secrets of all ages thine,

And commune with majestic thoughts that shine

O’er Time’s long shadowy pathway?—hath thy mind

Sever’d its lone dominions from mankind,

For this to woo their homage?—Thou hast sought

All, save the wisdom with salvation fraught,

Won every wreath—but that which will not die,

Nor aught neglected—save eternity!

And did all fail thee, in the hour of wrath,

When burst th’o’erwhelming vials on thy path?

 270

Could not the voice of Fame inspire thee then,

O spirit! scepter’d by the sons of men,36

With an Immortal’s courage, to sustain

The transient agonies of earthly pain?

—One, one there was, all-powerful to have sav’d,

When the loud fury of the billow rav’d;

But Him thou knew’st not—and the light he lent

Hath vanish’d from its ruin’d tenement,

But left thee breathing moving, lingering yet,

A thing we shrink from—vainly to forget!

 280

—Lift the dread veil no further—hide, oh! hide

The bleeding form, the couch of suicide!37

The dagger, grasp’d in death—the brow, the eye,

Lifeless, yet stamp’d with rage and agony;

The soul’s dark traces left in many a line

Graved on his mien, who died,—“and made no sign!”

Approach not, gaze not—lest thy fever’d brain,

Too deep that image of despair retain;

Angels of slumber! o’er the midnight hour,

Let not such visions claim unhallow’d power,

 290

Lest the mind sink with terror, and above

See but th’Avenger’s arm, forgot th’Atoner’s love!

O Thou! th’unseen, th’all seeing!—Thou whose ways

Mantled with darkness, mock all finite gaze,

Before whose eyes the creatures of Thy hand,

Seraph and man, alike in weakness stand,

And countless ages, trampling into clay

Earth’s empires on their march, are but a day;

Father of worlds unknown, unnumber’d!—Thou,

With whom all time is one eternal now,

 300

Who know’st no past, no future—Thou whose breath

Goes forth, and bears to myriads, life or death!38

Look on us, guide us!—wanderers of a sea

Wild and obscure, what are we, reft of Thee?

A thousand rocks, deep-hid, elude our sight,

A star may set—and we are lost in night;

A breeze may waft us to the whirlpool’s brink,

A treach’rous song allure us39—and we sink!

Oh! by His love, who, veiling Godhead’s light,

To moments circumscrib’d the Infinite,

 310

And Heaven and Earth disdain’d not to ally

By that dread union—Man with Deity;

Immortal tears o’er mortal woes who shed,

And, e’er he rais’d them, wept above the dead;

Save, or we perish!40—let Thy word controul

The earthquakes of that universe—the soul:

Pervade the depths of passion—speak once more

The mighty mandate, guard of every shore,

“Here shall thy waves be staid”——in grief, in pain,

The fearful poise of reason’s sphere maintain,

 320

Thou, by whom suns are balanced!—thus secure

In Thee shall Faith and Fortitude endure;

Conscious of thee, unfaltering shall the dust

Look upward still, in high and holy trust,

And, by affliction guided to Thy shrine,

The first, last thought of suffering hearts be Thine.

And oh! be near, when cloth’d with conquering power,

The King of Terrors claims his own dread hour:

When, on the edge of that unknown abyss,

Which darkly parts us from the realm of bliss,

 330

Awe-struck alike the timid and the brave,

Alike subdued the monarch and the slave,

Must drink the cup of trembling41—when we see

Nought in the universe but death and Thee,

Forsake us not;—if still, when life was young,

Faith to Thy bosom, as her home, hath sprung,

If Hope’s retreat hath been, through all the past,

The shadow by the Rock of Ages cast,

Father, forsake us not!—when tortures urge

The shrinking soul to that mysterious verge,

 340

When from Thy justice to Thy Love we fly,

On Nature’s conflict look with pitying eye,

Bid the strong, the fire, the earthquake cease,

Come in the still small voice,42 and whisper—peace!

For oh! ’tis awful—He that hath beheld

The parting spirit, by its fears repell’d,

Cling weak terror, to its earthly chain,

And from the dizzy brink recoil, in vain;

He that hath seen the last convulsive throe

Dissolve the union form’d and clos’d in woe,

 350

Well knows, that hour is awful.—In the pride

Of youth and health, by sufferings yet untried,

We talk of Death, as something which ’twere sweet

In Glory’s arms exultingly to meet,

A closing triumph, a majestic scene,

Where gazing nations watch the hero’s mien,

As, undismay’d amidst the tears of all,

He folds his mantle, regally to fall!

Hush, fond enthusiast!—still, obscure, and lone,

Yet not less terrible because unknown,

 360

Is the last hour of thousands—they retire

From life’s throng’d path, unnoticed to expire,43

As the light leaf, whose fall to ruin bears

Some trembling insect’s little world of cares,

Descends in silence—while around waves on

The mighty forest, reckless what is gone!

Such is man’s doom—and, ere an hour be flown,

—Start not, thou trifler! such may be thine own.

But as life’s current in its ebb draws near

The shadowy gulph, there wakes a thought of fear,

 370

A thrilling thought, which, haply mock’d before,

We fain would stifle—but it sleeps no more!

There are, who fly its murmurs midst the throng,

That join the masque of revelry and song,

Yet still Death’s image, by its power restor’d,

Frowns midst the roses of the festal board,

And, when deep shades o’er earth and ocean brood,

And the heart owns the might of solitude,

Is its low whisper heard?—a note profound,

But wild and startling as the trumpet-sound,

 380

That bursts, with sudden blasts, the dead repose

Of some proud city, storm’d by midnight foes!

Oh! vainly reason’s scornful voice would prove

That life hath nought to claim such lingering love,

And ask, if e’er the captive, half unchain’d,

Clung to the links which yet his step restrain’d?

In vain philosophy, with tranquil pride,

Would mock the feelings she perchance can hide,

Call up the countless armies of the dead,

Point to the pathway beaten by their tread,

 390

And say—“What wouldst thou? Shall the fix’d decree,

Made for creation, be revers’d for thee?44

—Poor, feeble aid!—proud Stoic! Ask not why,

It is enough, that nature shrinks to die!

Enough, that horror, which thy words upbraid,

Is her dread penalty, and must be paid!

—Search thy deep wisdom, solve the scarce defin’d

And mystic questions of the parting mind,

Half check’d, half utter’d—tell her, what shall burst

In whelming grandeur, on her vision first,

 400

When freed from mortal films?—what viewless world

Shall first receive her wing, but half unfurl’d?

What awful and unbodied beings guide

Her timid flight through regions yet untried?

Say, if at once, her final doom to hear,

Before her God the trembler must appear,

Or wait that day of terror, when the sea

Shall yield its hidden dead, and heaven and earth shall flee?45

Hast thou no answer?—then deride no more

The thoughts that shrink, yet cease not to explore

 410

Th’unknown, th’unseen, the future—tho’ the heart,

As at unearthly sounds, before them start,

Tho’ the frame shudder, and the spirit sigh,

They have their source in immortality!

Whence, then, shall strength, which reason’s aid denies,

An equal to the mortal conflict rise?

When, on the swift pale horse,46 whose lightning pace,

Where’er we fly, still wins the dreadful race,

The mighty rider comes—oh! whence shall aid

Be drawn, to meet his rushing, undismay’d?

 420

—Whence, but from thee, Messiah!—thou hast drain’d

The bitter cup,47 till not the dregs remain’d,

To thee the struggle and the pang were known,

The mystic horror—all became thine own!

But did no hand celestial succour bring,

Till scorn and anguish haply lost their sting?

Came not th’Archangel, in the final hour,

To arm thee with invulnerable power?

No, Son of God! upon thy sacred head,

The shafts of wrath their tenfold fury shed,

 430

From man averted—and thy path on high,

Pass’d thro’ the strait of fiercest agony;

For thus th’Eternal, with propitious eyes,

Receiv’d the last, th’almighty sacrifice!

But wake! be glad, ye nations! from the tomb,

Is won the victory,48 and is fled the gloom!

The vale of death in conquest hath been trod,49

Break forth in joy, ye ransom’d! saith your God!

Swell ye the raptures of the song afar,

And hail with harps your bright and morning star.50

 440

He rose! the everlasting gates of day,

Receiv’d the King of Glory on his way!

The hope, the comforter of those who wept,

And the first fruits of them, in Him that slept.51

He rose, he triumph’d! He will yet sustain

Frail nature sinking in the strife of pain.

Aided by him, around the martyr’s frame

When fiercely blazed a living shroud of flame,

Hath the firm soul exalted, and the voice

Rais’d the victorious hymn, and cried, Rejoice!

 450

Aided by Him, tho’ none the bed attend,

Where the lone sufferer dies without a friend,

He, whom the busy world shall miss no more,

Than morn one dew-drop from her countless store,

Earth’s most neglected child, with trusting heart,

Call’d to the hope of glory, shall depart!

And say, cold Sophist! If by thee bereft

Of that high hope, to misery what were left?

But for the vision of the days to be,

But for the Comforter, despis’d by thee,

 460

Should we not wither at the Chastener’s look,

Should we not sink beneath our God’s rebuke,

When o’er our heads the desolating blast,

Fraught with inscrutable decrees, hath pass’d,

And the stern power who seeks the noblest prey,

Hath call’d our fairest and our best away?

Should we not madden, when our eyes behold

All that we lov’d in marble stillness cold,

No more responsive to our smile or sigh,

Fix’d—frozen—silent—all mortality!

 470

But for the promise, all shall yet be well,

Would not the spirit in its pangs rebel,

Beneath such clouds as darken’d, when the hand

Of wrath lay heavy on our prostrate land,

And thou,52 just lent thy gladden’d isles to bless,

Then snatch’d from earth with all thy loveliness,

With all a nation’s blessings on thy head,

O England’s flower! wert gather’d to the dead?

But Thou didst teach us.  Thou to every heart,

Faith’s lofty lesson did thyself impart!

 480

When fled the hope thro’ all thy pangs which smiled,

When thy young bosom, o’er thy lifeless child,

Yearn’d with vain longing—still thy patient eye,

To its last light, beam’d holy constancy!

Torn from a lot in cloudless sunshine cast,

Amidst those agonies—thy first and last,

Thy pale lip, quivering with convulsive throes,

Breath’d not a plaint—and settled in repose;

While bow’d thy royal head to Him, whose power

Spoke in the fiat of that midnight hour,

 490

Who from the brightest vision of a throne,

Love, glory, empire, claim’d thee for his own,

And spread such terror o’er the sea-girt coast,

As blasted Israel, when her Ark was lost!

“It is the will of God!”—yet, yet we hear

The words which clos’d thy beautiful career,

Yet should we mourn thee in thy blest abode,

But for that thought—“It is the will of God!”

Who shall arraign th’Eternal’s dark decree,

If not one murmur then escaped from thee?

 500

Oh! still, tho’ vanishing without a trace,

Thou hast not left one scion of thy race,

Still may thy memory bloom our vales among,

Hallow’d by freedom, and enshrin’d in song!

Still may thy pure, majestic spirit dwell,

Bright on the isles which lov’d they name so well,

E’en as an angel, with presiding care,

To wake and guard thine own high virtues there.

For lo! the hour when storm-presaging skies,

Call on the watchers of the land to rise,

 510

To set the sign of fire on every height,53

And o’er the mountains rear, with patriot might,

Prepar’d, if summon’d, in its cause to die,

The banner of our faith, the Cross of victory!

By this hath England conquer’d—field and flood

Have own’d her sovereignty—alone she stood,

When chains o’er all the sceptred earth were thrown,

In high and holy singleness, a one,

But mighty, in her God—and shall she now

Forget before th’Omnipotent to bow?

 520

From the bright fountain of her glory turn,

Or bid strange fire upon his altars burn?

No! sever’d land, midst rocks and billows rude,

Thron’d in thy majesty of solitude,

Still in the deep asylum of thy breast,

Shall the pure elements of greatness rest,

Virtue and faith, the tutelary powers,

Thy hearths that hallow, and defend thy towers!

Still, where thy hamlet-vales, O chosen isle!

In the soft beauty of their verdure smile,

 530

Where yew and elm o’ershade the lowly fanes,

That guard the peasant’s records and remains,

May the blest echoes of the Sabbath-bell,

Sweet on the quiet of the woodlands swell,

And from each cottage-dwelling of thy glades,

When starlight glimmers through the deepening shades,

Devotion’s voice in choral hymns arise,

And bear the Land’s warm incense to the skies.

There may the mother, as with anxious joy,

To Heaven her lessons consecrate her boy,

 540

Teach his young accents still th’immortal lays,

Of Zion’s bards, in inspiration’s days,

When Angels, whispering through the cedar’s shade,

Prophetic tones to Judah’s harp convey’d;

And as, her soul all glistening in her eyes,

She bids the prayer of infancy arise,

Tell of His name, who left his Throne on high,

Earth’s lowliest lot to bear and sanctify,

His love divine, by keenest anguish tried,

And fondly say—“My child, for thee He died!”

 550

167.

Hark! forth from the abyss a voice proceeds,

A long low distant murmur of dread sound,

Such as arises when a nation bleeds

With some deep and immedicable wound;

Through storm and darkness yawns the rending ground,

The gulf is thick with phantoms, but the chief

Seems royal still, though with her head discrowned,

And pale, but lovely, with maternal grief

She clasps a babe, to whom her breast yields no relief.

168.

Scion of chiefs and monarchs, where art thou?

Fond hope of many nations, art thou dead?

Could not the grave forget thee, and lay low

Some less majestic, less beloved head?

In the sad midnight, while thy heart still bled,

The mother of a moment, o’er thy boy,

Death hushed that pang for ever: with thee fled

The present happiness and promised joy

Which filled the imperial isles so full it seemed to cloy.

169.

Peasants bring forth in safety. – Can it be,

Oh thou that wert so happy, so adored!

Those who weep not for kings shall weep for thee,

And Freedom’s heart, grown heavy, cease to hoard

Her many griefs for ONE; for she had poured

Her orisons for thee, and o’er thy head

Beheld her Iris. – Thou, too, lonely lord,

And desolate consort – vainly wert thou wed!

The husband of a year! the father of the dead!

170.

Of sackcloth was thy wedding garment made;

Thy bridal’s fruit is ashes: in the dust

The fair-haired Daughter of the Isles is laid,

The love of millions! How we did intrust

Futurity to her! and, though it must

Darken above our bones, yet fondly deemed

Our children should obey her child, and blessed

Her and her hoped-for seed, whose promise seemed

Like stars to shepherds’ eyes: – ’twas but a meteor beamed.

171.

Woe unto us, not her; for she sleeps well:

The fickle reek of popular breath, the tongue

Of hollow counsel, the false oracle,

Which from the birth of monarchy hath run

Its knell in princely ears, till the o’erstung

Nations have armed in madness, the strange fate

Which tumbles mightiest sovereigns, and hath flung

Against their blind omnipotence a weight

Within the opposing scale, which crushes soon or late, –

172.

These might have been her destiny; but no,

Our hearts deny it: and so young, so fair,

Good without effort, great without a foe;

But now a bride and mother – and now there!

How many ties did that stern moment tear!

From thy Sire’s to his humblest subject’s breast

Is linked the electric chain of that despair,

Whose shock was as an earthquake’s, and opprest

The land which loved thee so that none could love thee best.