For her, the royal flower, low laid in dust,

That was your fairest hope, your fondest trust.
Unconscious of the doom, we dreamt, alas!

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,
In bursts of British love and loyalty.

But, Britain! now thy chief, thy people mourn,
And Claremont's home of love is left forlorn :
There, where the happiest of the happy dwelt,
The 'scutcheon glooms, and royalty hath felt
A wound that ev'ry bosom feels its own,
The blessing of a father's heart o'erthrown-

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,
When the fix'd eye long look'd connubial faith,
And beam'd affection in the trance of death.

Sad was the pomp that yesternight beheld,

As with the mourner's heart the anthem swell'd;

While torch succeeding torch illumed each high
And banner'd arch of England's chivalry.
The rich plumed canopy, the gorgeous pall,

The sacred march, and sable-vested wall,
These were not rites of inexpressive show,
But hallow'd as the types of real woe!
Daughter of England! for a nation's sighs,
A nation's heart went with thine obsequies!
And oft shall time revert a look of grief
On thine existence, beautiful and brief.
Fair spirit! send thy blessing from above
On realms where thou art canonized by love!
Give to a father's, husband's bleeding mind,
The peace that angels lend to human kind;
To us who in thy loved remembrance feel
A sorrowing, but a soul-ennobling zeal

A loyalty that touches all the best

And loftiest principles of England's breast!

Still may thy name speak concord from the tomb-
Still in the Muse's breath thy memory bloom!
They shall describe thy life-thy form pourtray;
But all the love that mourns thee swept away,
'Tis not in language or expressive arts

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
Thy many woes, poor suicide, unknown?

He who thy being gave shall judge of thee alone.