Their king sat on the throne,

His captains by his side,

While the flame rush'd roaring on, And their pæan loud replied!

Thus fought the Greek of old!
Thus will he fight again!

Shall not the self-same mould

Bring forth the self-same men?

ON THE BUST

OF

THE LATE QUEEN OF PRUSSIA,

IN THE KING'S CHAMBER AT BERLIN, 1812.

THY day of agony is o'er!

Thou 'rt angel, and shalt weep no more:

In fortune's last extremity,

Princess, 'twas well for thee to die.

Death calms the wretched, frees the slave;

Can insult follow to the grave?

The tyrant now may taunt and scorn,

Thy spirit can no more be torn.

Oh, for the hour a Prussian's steel

Shall teach his callous heart to feel!

Thy cheek is still before me-pale

As the last leaf on Autumn's gale;
Then lit with one, swift, burning tinge,
As o'er it, from thine eyes' dark fringe,
Fell, drop by drop, the tears of pain,
At some new galling of thy chain ;
Some slighting, sullen courtesy-

Of him who could not honour thee.
And this the end of birth and bloom;
Tears, terrors, exile, and the tomb !—
And there is One, who, hour by hour,
Has wept upon thee, broken flower!
Pierced to the soul with every sting
That Fate could point against a King.
The Man had one more misery

To meet and met it, losing thee.
Image of beauty, breathing stone,
Here shrined so lovely, and so lone;
Comes he not here from restless sleep
To weep, as hearts alone can weep!

158

THE LATE QUEEN OF PRUSSIA.

Thy spell is on me too:-my eye

Is caught, fix'd, fill'd, unconscious why;
'Tis not thy more than regal brow;

Thy more than beauty; more than woe;
'Tis the deep grace, that seems to wind

O'er all, the relique of thy mind!
But the dark heart that dug thy grave

Shall die a recreant and a slave:

Not where his routed legions lie;

He must not die, as brave men die!
But weary, wither'd, lost,—his name
Earth's scorn, the common mark for shame ;
From fame, hope, empire, mankind driven,
As sure as there 's a Power in Heaven.

That sin 's not made to be forgiven!

NOON.

« Οικια τεττίγων, ενδιοι ακρεμόνες.”

COME, ye brown oaks, and stoop your heavy boughs, Making sweet eve around my sultry brows!

Wave your white beauty, lilies; hyacinths sigh;

And, woodbine, from your blossom'd canopy,

Stirring the smoothness of this quiet stream,
Shed on my eyes some deep, Elysian dream.
And come, thou young and silken-pinion'd Wind,
That the pale, virgin May, sends forth to find
Her flowers, in Winter's frozen bosom sleeping;
Wing round this leafy bed, in whispers creeping

Like softest music on my slumb'ring ear;

Until the murmur of the grasshopper,

VOL. I.

N