 | My Sonnets |  |
16
CHARLES THE FIRST.
Yes, thou wert doomed long ere thy brows had wornThe regal circle—ere thy sire, before
Her crouching whom the kingly queen, in war,
Shattered upon the ocean, made men mourn
For murdered Raleigh, for the fetters worn
By thought, an infant, loosely, more and more
Galled the young giant as it grew, and sore
It felt the cankering irons that had torn
Into its mighty limbs, at length, their way.
It must have burst its bonds, have hurled thee down,
And rent its struggling jailers, though all they
Who baffled thee,—though he who tore the crown
From thy weak grasp, thou hadst not stayed in hate.
What puppets are we in the hands of fate!
November 28th, 1842.
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