The Fall of the Leaf And Other Poems. By Charles Bucke ... Fourth Edition |
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 | The Fall of the Leaf |  |
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LINES
WRITTEN FOR THE PURPOSE OF RECITATION AT THE ORATORIO, PERFORMED IMMEDIATELY AFTER THE FUNERAL OF H. R. H. THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE, AT DRURY-LANE THEATRE.
“Thus it hath pleased ALMIGHTY GOD, to take out of this transitory
Life, unto his Divine Mercy, the late most illustrious Princess Charlotte
Augusta, daughter of his Royal Highness George, Prince of Wales,
Regent of this United Kingdom, Consort of his Serene Highness Leopold
George Frederick, Duke of Saxe, Margrave of Misnia, Landgrave of
Thuringia, Prince of Cobourg of Saalfield, and Grandaughter of his most
excellent Majesty George the Third, by the Grace of God, of the United
Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, King and Defender of the Faith,
whom God preserve with long Life, Health, Honour, and all worldly Happiness.”
—Sir Isaac Heard, Garter principal King at Arms.
“DEATH!—Ere thou hast slain another,
“Learn'd, and fair, and good as she,
“TIME shall throw a dart at thee!”
“Learn'd, and fair, and good as she,
“TIME shall throw a dart at thee!”
I.
Thus sung the Bard, in melancholy pride,When Sidney's hopes, and Pembroke's mother died.
Ah!—had he lived in this eventful time,
Tears then had fall'n and blotted out his rhyme!
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Fancy beholds Augusta's funeral urn!
Fair was her morn of life!—her Father's pride,
Her Mother's hope!—and all the Realm's beside!
Grief look'd relieved, whenever she appear'd;
And Love, delighted, smiled where'er her voice was heard.
II.
Early she knew, a People's love's the gem!That shines the brightest in a diadem:
That gem (despising every courtier's art)
She won, she wore, and polish'd in her heart.
Proud of her Country, through that Country wide
She liv'd—she died—its ornament and pride.
Briton in views, in manners, and in mind;
Warm, open, honest, liberal, and kind;
All ease, all grace!—For her e'en peasants pray,
For wheresoe'er she look'd, Pride, sullen, stalk'd away!
III.
At length came he, upon whose noble breastThe loveliest angel might with rapture rest:
Illustrious Cobourg!—Form'd in Virtue's mould!
Though manly, gentle; and with heart of gold!
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Delighted, charm'd, adoring, and amazed.
He gazed—and loved! She saw his modest smile,
And blush'd! She felt its influence beguile
Her proudest wishes; while that secret Power
That rules in cot, in palace, and in bower,
Smiled at them both.—Not daring to explain:
The Royal Father saw their secret pain,
And softly whisper'd, “Cobourg! you may woo;
“To crown my wishes and the empire's too.”
Oh! blest that father, whose parental pride
Could make an empire's heir a good man's bride;
Could bend, in tears of rapture, from a throne,
To make his daughter's paradise his own!
IV.
Now, then, behold th' illustrious pair retired,Blest with each wish their mutual hearts desired
Remote from splendour, and distractions rude,
Feeling no charm so great—as love in solitude.
Ah me! if joy from wedded love doth flow
In humbler bosoms, what must theirs, then, know,
When conscious Virtue,—visiting their dome,—
Planted soft beds of flowers, and own'd herself at home!
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V.
The empire heard how swift their minutes flewIn every mental exercise! and you—
You know—you feel—the honest truth I speak!
Alas the time!—a tear bedews my cheek,
To think how soon their pleasures flew away,
Like the short sunshine of an April day.
All Britons hail'd, with eagerness, the hour,
So grateful to their happiness and power,
When, from their mutual tenderness, might spring
Their country's bulwark—in a future king.
Hope sate in ev'ry eye! but in the bloom
Of love matured, their melancholy doom
Fate seal'd! while Death the patient dove
Struck in the fruitage of her wedded love!
VI.
Oh sure!—a time so sad has never been!Oh! sure—the suffering world has never seen
Its hopes so blighted! sure—relentless fate
Ne'er left a people's heart so—desolate!
Oh heaven!—But stay—the sorrow of mankind
Best shews the justice of th' eternal mind;
Which guards or withers, with impartial care,
A peasant's offspring, and an empire's heir.
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VII.
Yet, though with awe we check the voice of woe,We would not—cannot—check the tears that flow!
For ne'er, till now, has fond expecting bliss
Turn'd to a woe so exquisite as this!
The kindest mistress!—but ah!—wherefore dwell
On virtues such as hers?—You know them well!
And could your blood recal her—what a flood
Of tears in crimson!—for you'd weep in blood.
VIII.
But mark the husband!—see his drooping head:
See—how he gazes on the fatal bed!
Alas!—those eyes—those beauteous eyes—are closed,
On which his widow'd heart so late reposed!—
In silent agony he pitying stands,
Bends o'er her snowy frame, and wrings his nerveless hands.
See—how he gazes on the fatal bed!
Alas!—those eyes—those beauteous eyes—are closed,
On which his widow'd heart so late reposed!—
In silent agony he pitying stands,
Bends o'er her snowy frame, and wrings his nerveless hands.
Convulsed he bends!—No tear bedews his eye!
He sees the lovely, lifeless, victim lie
In Death's pale stillness!—On her faded cheek
He prints a sacred kiss, and bids her speak!
Alas!—she hears him not.—He calls again:
“My angel, speak!—nay—speak!”—He begs in vain.
“Dead?—No—she sleeps!—oh!—leave her to her rest!
“There—leave her—leave her:—Let the saint be blest.
“Breathe softly;—lest her slumbering visions fly—
“A saint so pure as this can never die!”
Thus he, in accents falt'ring, wild with dread:—
He will not yet believe his angel can be dead!
But soon—too soon—he sees Death's fatal snare!
Dumb—motionless—he sinks!—an emblem of despair!
He sees the lovely, lifeless, victim lie
In Death's pale stillness!—On her faded cheek
He prints a sacred kiss, and bids her speak!
Alas!—she hears him not.—He calls again:
“My angel, speak!—nay—speak!”—He begs in vain.
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“There—leave her—leave her:—Let the saint be blest.
“Breathe softly;—lest her slumbering visions fly—
“A saint so pure as this can never die!”
Thus he, in accents falt'ring, wild with dread:—
He will not yet believe his angel can be dead!
But soon—too soon—he sees Death's fatal snare!
Dumb—motionless—he sinks!—an emblem of despair!
IX.
You, too, who've lost a friend, so firm—yet mild!—A friend?—nay more—the Empire's darling child!
I hear your sighs;—I feel you scorn relief;
You mourn in public for a private grief:
And when retired—in silence and alone,
You weep in private for a public one.
Ah! well ye may! Yet dry, oh! dry your eyes;
Though in the grave her sainted body lies,
She lives—she lives!—a Christian never dies!
Her soul has burst the fetters of the tomb!
Her soul now flies to her celestial home!
Ah! when arrived at heaven's eternal doors,
Her best and sweetest hope she'll turn on you and yours!
While you and yours shall so embalm her fame,
That every distant age shall venerate her name!
| The Fall of the Leaf | |