Britannia in Lacrymis.
November bleak swept sullen o'er the isle
Where Freedom, guardant, roams the rocky coast,
And night's grim shroud obscured heaven's stellar smile,
When famed Britannia wail'd her Princess lost.
From the rude cliffs, her seat in days of war,
The goddess came, in mourning weeds attired,
While gloomy tempest drove his boreal car,
And sat by Windsor's tomb, by woe inspired.
Pensive and sad, she raised the strain of woe,
While hail-blasts harsh the direful prelude rung;
And ever and anon the tears did flow,
As dropp'd this dirge from off her faltering tongue.
“Alas! the sad, the fatal hour is come,
Which bright anticipation view'd with joy;
But all is changed, and every tongue is dumb,
Or sighs, ‘Oh, death! why thus our hope destroy?”
“She's gone for ever from this scene of things;
In death's cold grasp she doth profoundly sleep:
Pale visaged woe now strikes her drearest strings—
While Leöpold and I in anguish weep.
“No grief like that which is forerun by hope:
And where the hope like that which I possess'd?
But now, of that bereft, despair finds scope
To hold grim council still with the distress'd.
“She's dead! the clear concatenation's broke!
The ebon shroud now screens that pallid face,
Which lately virtue, love, and life bespoke—
With every Christian, every courtly grace.
“Ah! little dream'd she the eventful hour,
That usher'd death to her, approach'd so fast:
But e'en when death, with horrid frown, did lour,
Her look of love on Leöpold was cast.
“That look! so deep on his pure soul is graven
It will remain till time with him be o'er:
That look! like angel's smile serene from heaven!
Bade earth a sweet farewell for evermore!
“Soft be her rest! a soul so strung to love
Will find a clime congenial, high in bliss,
In rapture sweet, to join the choir above,
Nor cast one “lingering, longing look” on this.
HUIC SPERENT OMNIA!
