 | The Poetical Works of Caroline Bowles Southey |  |
Grief hath been known to turn the young head grey—
To silver over in a single day
The bright locks of the beautiful, their prime
Scarcely o'erpast: as in the fearful time
Of Gallia's madness, that discrownèd head
Serene, that on the accursèd altar bled,
Miscalled of Liberty. Oh, martyred Queen!
What must the sufferings of that night have been?—
That one—that sprinkled thy fair tresses o'er
With Time's untimely snow! But now no more,
Lovely, august, unhappy one, of thee—
I have to tell an humbler history;
A village tale, whose only charm, in sooth,
If any, will be sad and simple truth.
To silver over in a single day
The bright locks of the beautiful, their prime
Scarcely o'erpast: as in the fearful time
Of Gallia's madness, that discrownèd head
Serene, that on the accursèd altar bled,
Miscalled of Liberty. Oh, martyred Queen!
What must the sufferings of that night have been?—
That one—that sprinkled thy fair tresses o'er
With Time's untimely snow! But now no more,
Lovely, august, unhappy one, of thee—
I have to tell an humbler history;
A village tale, whose only charm, in sooth,
If any, will be sad and simple truth.
| The Poetical Works of Caroline Bowles Southey | |