For her, the royal flower, low laid in dust, That was your fairest hope, your fondest trust. That ev'n these walls, ere many months should pass, Which but return sad accents for her now, Perhaps had witness'd her benignant brow, Cheer'd by the voice you would have raised on high, But, Britain! now thy chief, thy people mourn, The most beloved and most devoted bride Torn from an agonized husband's side, Who "long as Memory holds her seat" shall view That speechless, more than spoken last adieu, Sad was the pomp that yesternight beheld, As with the mourner's heart the anthem swell'd; While torch succeeding torch illumed each high The sacred march, and sable-vested wall, A loyalty that touches all the best And loftiest principles of England's breast! Still may thy name speak concord from the tomb- To paint-yet feel it, Britons, in your hearts! LINES ON THE GRAVE OF A SUICIDE. By strangers left upon a lonely shore, Unknown, unhonour'd, was the friendless dead; For child to weep, or widow to deplore, There never came to his unburied head: All from his dreary habitation fled. Nor will the lantern'd fisherman at eve Launch on that water by the witches' tow'r, Where hellebore and hemlock seem to weave Round its dark vaults a melancholy bow'r, For spirits of the dead at night's enchanted hour. They dread to meet thee, poor unfortunate ! Whose crime it was, on life's unfinish'd road To feel the stepdame buffetings of fate, And render back thy being's heavy load. Ah! once, perhaps, the social passions glow'd In thy devoted bosom -- and the hand That smote its kindred heart, might yet be prone To deeds of mercy. Who may understand He who thy being gave shall judge of thee alone. |