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 | My Mind and its Thoughts, in Sketches, Fragments, and Essays |  |
ELEGY.
TO THE MEMORY OF MARIE ANTOINETTE, THE UNFORTUNATE QUEEN OF LOUIS THE 16TH, OF FRANCE.—WRITTEN IMMEDIATELY UPON HEARING OF THE EVENT OF HER DEATH.
'Tis past—the agonizing pang is o'er,
And THOU, fair faded shadow of a queen,
Shalt bend that supplicating eye no more,
While spurning insult rears his ruffian mien.
And THOU, fair faded shadow of a queen,
Shalt bend that supplicating eye no more,
While spurning insult rears his ruffian mien.
No more the sighing breeze of dawn shall bear,
The sentenced murder to thy harrowed soul,
No more the night, close curtained by despair,
Bid the deep whelming flood of anguish roll
The sentenced murder to thy harrowed soul,
No more the night, close curtained by despair,
Bid the deep whelming flood of anguish roll
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No more remembrance to thy blasted view,
Recal the morning of thy troubled day,
When hope around the lovely landscape threw,
Spring's changeless robe, and summer's cloudless ray.
Recal the morning of thy troubled day,
When hope around the lovely landscape threw,
Spring's changeless robe, and summer's cloudless ray.
Set is thy star of life—the pausing storm,
Turns its black deluge from that wearied head,
The fiends of murder quit that bloodless form,
And the last animating hope is fled.
Turns its black deluge from that wearied head,
The fiends of murder quit that bloodless form,
And the last animating hope is fled.
Blest is the hour of peace—though curs'd the hand,
That snaps the thread of life's disastrous loom,
Thrice blest, the great invincible command,
Which deals the solace of the slumbering tomb.
That snaps the thread of life's disastrous loom,
Thrice blest, the great invincible command,
Which deals the solace of the slumbering tomb.
Let those whom long adopted sorrows own,
On whom the cruel strokes of fate descend,
On whom the happy race of mortals frown,
And stern affliction strips of many a friend:
On whom the cruel strokes of fate descend,
On whom the happy race of mortals frown,
And stern affliction strips of many a friend:
Those who at Cynthia's melancholy hour,
While the slow night-clock knells its mournful sound—
Have waked to weep, with unavailing power,
The cureless pang of many a mental wound:
While the slow night-clock knells its mournful sound—
Have waked to weep, with unavailing power,
The cureless pang of many a mental wound:
Let the wrapt mother, who, with phrenzied mind,
Saw her last cherub feed the hungry tomb—
Or her, whose heart its peerless lord resigned,
And gave to cankering grief her vernal bloom:
Saw her last cherub feed the hungry tomb—
Or her, whose heart its peerless lord resigned,
And gave to cankering grief her vernal bloom:
Let all who fondly clasp the form of woe,
And boast that every featured ill is theirs,
On Gallia's Queen one patient hour bestow,
And turn to heaven with penitence and prayers.
And boast that every featured ill is theirs,
On Gallia's Queen one patient hour bestow,
And turn to heaven with penitence and prayers.
Did'st THOU, poor mourner, grace yon lilied throne,
Fair as the youthful poet's pictured dream,
While round thy days the light of fortune shone,
And warmed a nation with its dazzling beam?
Fair as the youthful poet's pictured dream,
While round thy days the light of fortune shone,
And warmed a nation with its dazzling beam?
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Ah no—vain ingrate—nature's boundless page,
On the chilled sense no equal horror throws—
One dread example blots a lettered age,
That scene abhorred, a polished realm bestows.
On the chilled sense no equal horror throws—
One dread example blots a lettered age,
That scene abhorred, a polished realm bestows.
What though affliction's petrifying sway,
Has bid thy heart its kindling pulse forego,
Has torn of life the vital hope away—
And left thee as a monument of woe:
Has bid thy heart its kindling pulse forego,
Has torn of life the vital hope away—
And left thee as a monument of woe:
Yet call the roses to thy faded cheek,
With the mind's lustre light the languid eye,
Cloathe the vex'd soul with resignation meek,
And bid the labouring, lingering murmur die.
With the mind's lustre light the languid eye,
Cloathe the vex'd soul with resignation meek,
And bid the labouring, lingering murmur die.
Why should the wretch, upon whose visual orb,
The Lord of brightness never poured his ray.
Repine, when darkness folds her nightly robe,
At the swift transit of the changeful day?
The Lord of brightness never poured his ray.
Repine, when darkness folds her nightly robe,
At the swift transit of the changeful day?
Can the poor worm who clasps his speck of earth,
While on his head the crushing bolt is hurl'd,
Like yon bright offspring of celestial birth,
Command the plaudit of a pitying world?
While on his head the crushing bolt is hurl'd,
Like yon bright offspring of celestial birth,
Command the plaudit of a pitying world?
Say, wert thou sent to fill this stormy scene,
Freed from the icy touch of withering care?—
Then think of loyal Gallia's worship'd Queen,
And learn thy little drop of woe to bear.
Freed from the icy touch of withering care?—
Then think of loyal Gallia's worship'd Queen,
And learn thy little drop of woe to bear.
Ah then, thou selfish mourner, cease to grieve,
If to thine heart one orphan hope remain,
With grateful lip the precious boon receive,
As the sweet solace for a world of pain.
If to thine heart one orphan hope remain,
With grateful lip the precious boon receive,
As the sweet solace for a world of pain.
| My Mind and its Thoughts, in Sketches, Fragments, and Essays | |