 | Death of the Queen Dowager |  |
3
Death of The Queen Dowager.
“AND NOW ABIDETH FAITH, HOPE, CHARITY, THESE THREE;
BUT THE GREATEST OF THESE IS CHARITY.”
INVOCATION.
O thou that rul'st illimitable space,
And all the atoms of the human race,
Vouchsafe to touch my muse's humble lyre,
And breathe into her soul celestial fire.
Father of spirits, whose all searching eye
The least of all thy creatures can descry;
Without thy note a sparrow does not fall,
A moth decay, or smallest insect crawl.
Thou, who can'st count the dust of all the dead,
And number up the hairs on ev'ry head;
Pry into ocean's wave-embosom'd cell,
And scan the form of the minutest shell,
Enumerate the sands upon the shore,
Wash'd by the billow—and the tempest's roar.
Thou, who cans't rend the earth, from pole to pole,
And flash away the heav'ns with a scroll;
Thou, who the spider's finest thread can spin,
And put the least of all the fibres in,—
And when the microscopic task is done,
Hang'st up thy work to glitter in the sun.
Do thou support my weak and trembling muse.
And give her vision bright and heav'nly views.
Subdue the world, and empty all things vain,
And let her tread thy temple's holy fane—
The star-pav'd courts of heav'n's wide expanse—
And o'er the hills and golden valleys glance.
Aid her advent'rous flight to realms afar,
And bid her read thy glory in the star;
Those ever burning, ever gorgeous orbs,
Whose quenchless rays all other light absorbs.
And note the planets, as they ceaseless roll
Round the sun globe, which gravitates the whole.
O lead her upward in thy paths sublime,
And teach her that eternity is thine.
And all the atoms of the human race,
Vouchsafe to touch my muse's humble lyre,
And breathe into her soul celestial fire.
Father of spirits, whose all searching eye
The least of all thy creatures can descry;
Without thy note a sparrow does not fall,
A moth decay, or smallest insect crawl.
Thou, who can'st count the dust of all the dead,
And number up the hairs on ev'ry head;
Pry into ocean's wave-embosom'd cell,
And scan the form of the minutest shell,
Enumerate the sands upon the shore,
Wash'd by the billow—and the tempest's roar.
Thou, who cans't rend the earth, from pole to pole,
And flash away the heav'ns with a scroll;
Thou, who the spider's finest thread can spin,
And put the least of all the fibres in,—
And when the microscopic task is done,
Hang'st up thy work to glitter in the sun.
4
And give her vision bright and heav'nly views.
Subdue the world, and empty all things vain,
And let her tread thy temple's holy fane—
The star-pav'd courts of heav'n's wide expanse—
And o'er the hills and golden valleys glance.
Aid her advent'rous flight to realms afar,
And bid her read thy glory in the star;
Those ever burning, ever gorgeous orbs,
Whose quenchless rays all other light absorbs.
And note the planets, as they ceaseless roll
Round the sun globe, which gravitates the whole.
O lead her upward in thy paths sublime,
And teach her that eternity is thine.
Whence is that long and stream-like shooting ray,
Whose lust'rous light be-sprinks the milky way.
As if some orb had quench'd its dying flame,
To be re-lit—to glorify again.
The hand that can extinguish, can restore,
And make the lamp burn brighter than before.
A star has fallen—and has sunk its light
Deep in an abyss of chaotic night.
A crown has also fallen from the brow
Of one, whom death has stricken and laid low.
Whose lust'rous light be-sprinks the milky way.
As if some orb had quench'd its dying flame,
To be re-lit—to glorify again.
The hand that can extinguish, can restore,
And make the lamp burn brighter than before.
A star has fallen—and has sunk its light
Deep in an abyss of chaotic night.
A crown has also fallen from the brow
Of one, whom death has stricken and laid low.
Ah! what is that—a soft and lucid light,
Which glances like a vision by the sight;
Is it some cherub of the heav'nly host,
Sent down to visit earth's benighted coast;
And thus at early Sabbath dawn appears,
Gleaming along th'immeasurable spheres.
Which glances like a vision by the sight;
Is it some cherub of the heav'nly host,
Sent down to visit earth's benighted coast;
And thus at early Sabbath dawn appears,
Gleaming along th'immeasurable spheres.
But see, a shadow hovers o'er yon spot—
Whose feet are like a quiv'ring arrow shot
Athwart the womb of night, and glimmers round,
A light which faintly trembles on the ground.
What can it be—celestial spirit say—
It comes to bear a ransom'd soul away.
Ah me! what lustre shines—what godlike grace—
Methinks I see sweet Gabriel's heav'nly face.
'Tis lovely to behold a vision thus—
An angel visit made so near to us.
Like the transfiguration on the mount,
'Tis good to be beside salvation's fount.
Ah! see—he bears a white-rob'd sainted form,
Of all the ills that flesh is heir to, shorn.
No more the pulse shall ling'ring throb with pain,
Nor fever's arrow shoot across the brain;
The stifled breath impeded struggle thro'
The poor weak lungs, with more than they can do.
Whose feet are like a quiv'ring arrow shot
Athwart the womb of night, and glimmers round,
A light which faintly trembles on the ground.
What can it be—celestial spirit say—
It comes to bear a ransom'd soul away.
5
Methinks I see sweet Gabriel's heav'nly face.
'Tis lovely to behold a vision thus—
An angel visit made so near to us.
Like the transfiguration on the mount,
'Tis good to be beside salvation's fount.
Ah! see—he bears a white-rob'd sainted form,
Of all the ills that flesh is heir to, shorn.
No more the pulse shall ling'ring throb with pain,
Nor fever's arrow shoot across the brain;
The stifled breath impeded struggle thro'
The poor weak lungs, with more than they can do.
And O how kindly gentle Gabriel takes
The silver cord, which in a moment breaks;
Loosens the soul and laps it in his breast,
To bear the spirit to its wonted rest.
Thither they go—beyond the car of night,
Gilded by clouds diaphanous and bright.
Swift thro' the realms of space their spirits pass,
Where faith is sight, and needs no darkling glass.
The heavens open to receive the pair,
And Gabriel leaves his lovely burden there.
Is it a phantom, or a thing unreal
Which I have seen, and which I inly feel?
The vision is so sweet, that I would fain
See Gabriel's visit o'er and o'er again.
But yet I thank the spirit of all truth,
Who clothes my thoughts in an immortal youth,
And gives me power of language to describe,
How saints are re-united to the bride;
And death has not one terror to bestow,
Where faith in Christ and seeds of virtue grow.
But I must stay my muse's upward flight,
And speak of things as they appear to sight.
The silver cord, which in a moment breaks;
Loosens the soul and laps it in his breast,
To bear the spirit to its wonted rest.
Thither they go—beyond the car of night,
Gilded by clouds diaphanous and bright.
Swift thro' the realms of space their spirits pass,
Where faith is sight, and needs no darkling glass.
The heavens open to receive the pair,
And Gabriel leaves his lovely burden there.
Is it a phantom, or a thing unreal
Which I have seen, and which I inly feel?
The vision is so sweet, that I would fain
See Gabriel's visit o'er and o'er again.
But yet I thank the spirit of all truth,
Who clothes my thoughts in an immortal youth,
And gives me power of language to describe,
How saints are re-united to the bride;
And death has not one terror to bestow,
Where faith in Christ and seeds of virtue grow.
But I must stay my muse's upward flight,
And speak of things as they appear to sight.
Say, whence that lorn and melancholy wail,
Which steals along old Stanmore's moon-lit vale
'Tis sorrow's moan, from Bentley's cloister'd tow'r,
Which breaks the silence of night's solemn hour.
For in that Priory's secluded walls,
A queen—resign'd—upon her Maker calls;
And lies upon the sickly couch compos'd,
As if in sleep her gentleness repos'd.
There rested pious Adelaide—until
The hand of death fell on her cold and chill;
But yet she did not shudder—did not start,
But meekly bow'd submissive to the dart.
Which steals along old Stanmore's moon-lit vale
6
Which breaks the silence of night's solemn hour.
For in that Priory's secluded walls,
A queen—resign'd—upon her Maker calls;
And lies upon the sickly couch compos'd,
As if in sleep her gentleness repos'd.
There rested pious Adelaide—until
The hand of death fell on her cold and chill;
But yet she did not shudder—did not start,
But meekly bow'd submissive to the dart.
Lo! from the Priory's dark ivied walls,
Methinks I hear low plaints and quick footfalls;
And flashing to and fro soft lights are seen,
With now and then a face of wo between.
And hark! the owl in anger or affright,
Beats up against the casement's streaming light;
And whooping with a wild, unearthly scream,
Heightens the terror of a death-bed scene.
And round the Priory wall, with sudden spring,
The bat flits by, and shrieks upon the wing.
But neither owl or bat can harm the peace,
Of pious souls awaiting their decease;
Altho' these things may shock the vulgar ear,
To dying christians they possess no fear.
Methinks I hear low plaints and quick footfalls;
And flashing to and fro soft lights are seen,
With now and then a face of wo between.
And hark! the owl in anger or affright,
Beats up against the casement's streaming light;
And whooping with a wild, unearthly scream,
Heightens the terror of a death-bed scene.
And round the Priory wall, with sudden spring,
The bat flits by, and shrieks upon the wing.
But neither owl or bat can harm the peace,
Of pious souls awaiting their decease;
Altho' these things may shock the vulgar ear,
To dying christians they possess no fear.
'Tis midnight hour, and death knocks at the gate,
The dying Queen resigns herself to fate.
For her the summons has no fearful sound,
Fast to the cross her humble faith is bound;
And tho' at dead of night the message comes,
No sign of fear or sickly tremor runs,
But with a calm composure—stedfast faith,
The good Queen Adelaide awaits her death.
The dying Queen resigns herself to fate.
For her the summons has no fearful sound,
Fast to the cross her humble faith is bound;
And tho' at dead of night the message comes,
No sign of fear or sickly tremor runs,
But with a calm composure—stedfast faith,
The good Queen Adelaide awaits her death.
Say! shall we slowly draw aside the screen,
And take a lesson from the mournful scene.
A death bed—with heart-sobbing friends around,
At such a time is consecrated ground;
Therefore my muse, she almost fears to tread,
The grief-absorbing chamber of the dead.
But then this high-born lady died so blest,
As if the mercy dove sat on her breast,
Her mortal suff'rings ended in a sigh,
Which told it was but gain to her to die.
And take a lesson from the mournful scene.
A death bed—with heart-sobbing friends around,
At such a time is consecrated ground;
7
The grief-absorbing chamber of the dead.
But then this high-born lady died so blest,
As if the mercy dove sat on her breast,
Her mortal suff'rings ended in a sigh,
Which told it was but gain to her to die.
The spirit it has fled—and all is still,
Yet round the chamber you can hear a thrill—
A stifled anguish—agonizing throbs,
Before the heart-strings burst out into sobs.
There lay the hand extended in cold clasp,
The fingers fast relaxing in their grasp;
And those blue eyes, glaz'd o'er by death are hid,
By pressing down their tender coverlid—
Seal'd up for ever from the friendly gaze
Of those who lov'd their light in bygone days.
And there too rests the cold and placid brow,
As smooth as marble and as white as snow,
So often arch'd in high benevolence,
The charity of feeling and good sense;
There lies the royal corse, in-wreath'd with clay,
To wait the summons of the judgment day.
But now the sorr'wing few prepare to take
A last embrace—for the dear body's sake;
They give one fixed look—intense—severe—
Their grief too stubborn to distil a tear.
With heavy heart, and falt'ring step they go,
To sorrow in the chamber of their wo.
Yet round the chamber you can hear a thrill—
A stifled anguish—agonizing throbs,
Before the heart-strings burst out into sobs.
There lay the hand extended in cold clasp,
The fingers fast relaxing in their grasp;
And those blue eyes, glaz'd o'er by death are hid,
By pressing down their tender coverlid—
Seal'd up for ever from the friendly gaze
Of those who lov'd their light in bygone days.
And there too rests the cold and placid brow,
As smooth as marble and as white as snow,
So often arch'd in high benevolence,
The charity of feeling and good sense;
There lies the royal corse, in-wreath'd with clay,
To wait the summons of the judgment day.
But now the sorr'wing few prepare to take
A last embrace—for the dear body's sake;
They give one fixed look—intense—severe—
Their grief too stubborn to distil a tear.
With heavy heart, and falt'ring step they go,
To sorrow in the chamber of their wo.
The Duchess Ida scarcely draws a breath,
Fix'd in the stern astonishment of death.
The dread reality—the summons comes,
Beneath the roof where royalty sojourns.
O'erwhelm'd with grief the sobbing Duchess stands,
And in an agony she wrings her hands;
To heav'n she lifts her sadly weeping eyes,
Beseeching help and mercy from the skies.
O what is honor—what are earthly thrones,
When strong-ribb'd death alike to all flesh comes.
The Duchess Ida weeps—and then forgets,
Her high-born station in her deep regrets.
Then—only then—do the exclusive few,
Feel nature's soft emotions filter thro'.
When prestiges of rank are swept away,
And monarchs feel themselves they are but clay.
Fix'd in the stern astonishment of death.
The dread reality—the summons comes,
Beneath the roof where royalty sojourns.
O'erwhelm'd with grief the sobbing Duchess stands,
And in an agony she wrings her hands;
To heav'n she lifts her sadly weeping eyes,
Beseeching help and mercy from the skies.
8
When strong-ribb'd death alike to all flesh comes.
The Duchess Ida weeps—and then forgets,
Her high-born station in her deep regrets.
Then—only then—do the exclusive few,
Feel nature's soft emotions filter thro'.
When prestiges of rank are swept away,
And monarchs feel themselves they are but clay.
But see—there are Princesses drown'd in tears,
O what a burst of agony is theirs.
Their friend and royal relative lies dead—
The spirit of Queen Adelaide has fled.
Ah! see these born Princesses how they hang
Their harps upon the willows with a pang.
How kind she was, how gentle was her look,
And in their welfare what regard she took;
Behold them now, sweet, tender, sobbing girls,
Slender as graces, and as fair as pearls,
With heart-wrung anguish they are almost spent,
And look as pale as marble monument.
O what a burst of agony is theirs.
Their friend and royal relative lies dead—
The spirit of Queen Adelaide has fled.
Ah! see these born Princesses how they hang
Their harps upon the willows with a pang.
How kind she was, how gentle was her look,
And in their welfare what regard she took;
Behold them now, sweet, tender, sobbing girls,
Slender as graces, and as fair as pearls,
With heart-wrung anguish they are almost spent,
And look as pale as marble monument.
And see the gallant Princes sorrow too—
The heart surcharg'd with nature's grief bursts thro';
They feel a sympathy profound—sincere—
And drop in silence—a pellucid tear.
Nor think that such emotion it is weak,
A feeling tear adorns the manly cheek;
The greatest heroes—bravest of the brave,
Are seen to weep upon a comrade's grave.
Saxe Weimar's Princes, honour to thy name,
O may thy spurs win a Duke Bernard's fame.
The dying Queen her parting blessing gives,
The last injunction while the spirit lives.
O Princes carry to the tomb the pray'r,
That fell so gently on the list'ning ear.
Utter'd amidst the shining heav'nly host
And just before she yielded up the ghost.
And we would wipe the warm and gushing tear,
Of those sad mourners round the queenly bier.
By saying in firm faith—her passport's sign'd,
And that she has a train of seraphs join'd.
In faith we see her in a robe of white,
Casting her crown before a throne of light;
Folded in beauty and celestial grace—
A ray of glory beaming in her face.
And while seraphic warblings soothe the ear,
Faith bursts upon the vision strong and clear.
There all are kings and priests—and all wear crowns—
In heaven all are equal—all are sons
And daughters of th'Almighty spirit there—
For ever lovely, and for ever fair.
Then cease to weep! O Duchess Ida cease—
Thy sister is in heav'n, and in peace.
You would not rob her of her heav'nly smile,
And bring her back again to pain and toil.
For none are here exempt from woes and death,
For sorrow comes with our first infant breath.
You would not, O you would not wish to see,
Her pangs again, and anguish bodily.
Here—all we honour is her cold remains,
Memento of earth's ‘penalties and pains.’
Ashes to ashes—dust unto its dust—
But death cannot annihilate the just.
Then cease thy sorrow, Duchess—cease to weep,
Thy sainted sister is but laid asleep;
And softly on faith's pillow lays her head,
Until the resurrection of the dead.
The heart surcharg'd with nature's grief bursts thro';
They feel a sympathy profound—sincere—
And drop in silence—a pellucid tear.
Nor think that such emotion it is weak,
A feeling tear adorns the manly cheek;
The greatest heroes—bravest of the brave,
Are seen to weep upon a comrade's grave.
Saxe Weimar's Princes, honour to thy name,
O may thy spurs win a Duke Bernard's fame.
The dying Queen her parting blessing gives,
The last injunction while the spirit lives.
O Princes carry to the tomb the pray'r,
That fell so gently on the list'ning ear.
Utter'd amidst the shining heav'nly host
And just before she yielded up the ghost.
9
Of those sad mourners round the queenly bier.
By saying in firm faith—her passport's sign'd,
And that she has a train of seraphs join'd.
In faith we see her in a robe of white,
Casting her crown before a throne of light;
Folded in beauty and celestial grace—
A ray of glory beaming in her face.
And while seraphic warblings soothe the ear,
Faith bursts upon the vision strong and clear.
There all are kings and priests—and all wear crowns—
In heaven all are equal—all are sons
And daughters of th'Almighty spirit there—
For ever lovely, and for ever fair.
Then cease to weep! O Duchess Ida cease—
Thy sister is in heav'n, and in peace.
You would not rob her of her heav'nly smile,
And bring her back again to pain and toil.
For none are here exempt from woes and death,
For sorrow comes with our first infant breath.
You would not, O you would not wish to see,
Her pangs again, and anguish bodily.
Here—all we honour is her cold remains,
Memento of earth's ‘penalties and pains.’
Ashes to ashes—dust unto its dust—
But death cannot annihilate the just.
Then cease thy sorrow, Duchess—cease to weep,
Thy sainted sister is but laid asleep;
And softly on faith's pillow lays her head,
Until the resurrection of the dead.
And now be mine the task to speak of her
Unsullied purity of character;
Her warm benevolence so truly great,
That its extent we cannot estimate.
Mine is no maudlin verse of sickly praise—
The courtly flattery of modern days.
The words of truth are spoken, and I feel
A live coal on my lips—a burning zeal,
To do strict justice to a pious Queen,
Whose acts of charity so great have been.
Left by her consort with abundant means,
She liv'd the most benevolent of Queens.
A thousand families were daily fed,
To whom kind-hearted Adelaide gave bread.
There's many blame the rulers of our land,
For placing a large sum at her command;
God send such incomes were but daily giv'n,
When the recipients are taught by heav'n,
That they are merely stewards, to bestow
Their wealth in healing misery and wo.
It needs no pen to tell how Adelaide
Dispens'd the large allowance which she had:
Ask churches, charities, and distant lands,
Widows and orphans, ask it at their hands.
And hear the vast assemblage with one voice,
Declare she gave them of the heart's free choice.
She did not keep benevolence at home,
All round the globe her charity is known;
Australia, and the Cape, and Newfoundland,
Own her munificent and bounteous hand;
Cathedrals and commodious churches raise
Their spires to heav'n, and redound her praise,
And mariners who plough the distant main,
Echo her virtues and repeat the strain.
Valetta's spire, in Malta's strong-girt isle—
That noble edifice and stately pile—
Speaks of her bounty and her christian act,
Of building up a spacious church compact;
And could those ancient knights of valour rise,
Whose fame has risen lofty as the skies,
How would their knightly gallantry applaud
The hand that built a temple for the Lord.
Her charity was instant, not delay'd,
For positive distress cannot be stay'd;
This moral lesson she has left behind,
First feed the body, then instruct the mind.
The calls of hunger need immediate alms,
How can a famish'd wretch—read tracts—sing psalms.
Unsullied purity of character;
Her warm benevolence so truly great,
That its extent we cannot estimate.
Mine is no maudlin verse of sickly praise—
The courtly flattery of modern days.
10
A live coal on my lips—a burning zeal,
To do strict justice to a pious Queen,
Whose acts of charity so great have been.
Left by her consort with abundant means,
She liv'd the most benevolent of Queens.
A thousand families were daily fed,
To whom kind-hearted Adelaide gave bread.
There's many blame the rulers of our land,
For placing a large sum at her command;
God send such incomes were but daily giv'n,
When the recipients are taught by heav'n,
That they are merely stewards, to bestow
Their wealth in healing misery and wo.
It needs no pen to tell how Adelaide
Dispens'd the large allowance which she had:
Ask churches, charities, and distant lands,
Widows and orphans, ask it at their hands.
And hear the vast assemblage with one voice,
Declare she gave them of the heart's free choice.
She did not keep benevolence at home,
All round the globe her charity is known;
Australia, and the Cape, and Newfoundland,
Own her munificent and bounteous hand;
Cathedrals and commodious churches raise
Their spires to heav'n, and redound her praise,
And mariners who plough the distant main,
Echo her virtues and repeat the strain.
Valetta's spire, in Malta's strong-girt isle—
That noble edifice and stately pile—
Speaks of her bounty and her christian act,
Of building up a spacious church compact;
And could those ancient knights of valour rise,
Whose fame has risen lofty as the skies,
How would their knightly gallantry applaud
The hand that built a temple for the Lord.
11
For positive distress cannot be stay'd;
This moral lesson she has left behind,
First feed the body, then instruct the mind.
The calls of hunger need immediate alms,
How can a famish'd wretch—read tracts—sing psalms.
But she had other traits of excellence,
As well as her benign benevolence.
The duties she perform'd as a fond wife,
Towards the kingly partner of her life.
O view her in the last sad sorr'wing scene,
Her love and her attachment were extreme;
She made his death-bed easy, and consol'd,
And wip'd away the dew-drops as they roll'd.
Those chilling drops—expiring nature flows,
And which to sooth—a woman only knows.
Twelve nights successive, tho' her strength had fled,
She watch'd beside her husband's dying bed;
And with a sweet solicitude would fling
Her arms around the brave old sailor king.
And with her hand supporting his weak breast,
The monarch died and quietly sank to rest.
As well as her benign benevolence.
The duties she perform'd as a fond wife,
Towards the kingly partner of her life.
O view her in the last sad sorr'wing scene,
Her love and her attachment were extreme;
She made his death-bed easy, and consol'd,
And wip'd away the dew-drops as they roll'd.
Those chilling drops—expiring nature flows,
And which to sooth—a woman only knows.
Twelve nights successive, tho' her strength had fled,
She watch'd beside her husband's dying bed;
And with a sweet solicitude would fling
Her arms around the brave old sailor king.
And with her hand supporting his weak breast,
The monarch died and quietly sank to rest.
Such wedlock ought to be—still fresh and young,
As when the fond and clasping ivy clung
First in embrace, around the oak out-spread
To shelter and protect its leafy head.
What poor return the heart of man can make,
For woman's love and kindness, for his sake.
O what can soothe in sorrow or in strife,
Like voice of woman, and that woman—wife.
As when the fond and clasping ivy clung
First in embrace, around the oak out-spread
To shelter and protect its leafy head.
What poor return the heart of man can make,
For woman's love and kindness, for his sake.
O what can soothe in sorrow or in strife,
Like voice of woman, and that woman—wife.
Now let us pause, and enter in the homes
Of wretches haunted by each other's groans.
With means so scant they scarcely can provide
A single meal, to stem the ruthless tide
Of hunger's raging—which comes madly on,
Gnaws thro' the night, and frantic mocks at noon.
And O how sadd'ning is it to reflect,
How many now must perish by neglect
And want of food, now their good angel's gone
For when they cry for bread, the world gives stone.
How shocking must the death of this good queen
Be unto those who for long years have been
Recipients of her bounty—hopeless now,
They press the palm against the aching brow.
Ah whither—whither shall the starving poor
Now turn, to see an angel at their door;
A pitying bosom which its aid bestows,
With a kind sympathy for all their woes.
But her reward is now being freely giv'n,
The good Queen Adelaide has gone to heav'n.
Of wretches haunted by each other's groans.
With means so scant they scarcely can provide
A single meal, to stem the ruthless tide
Of hunger's raging—which comes madly on,
Gnaws thro' the night, and frantic mocks at noon.
12
How many now must perish by neglect
And want of food, now their good angel's gone
For when they cry for bread, the world gives stone.
How shocking must the death of this good queen
Be unto those who for long years have been
Recipients of her bounty—hopeless now,
They press the palm against the aching brow.
Ah whither—whither shall the starving poor
Now turn, to see an angel at their door;
A pitying bosom which its aid bestows,
With a kind sympathy for all their woes.
But her reward is now being freely giv'n,
The good Queen Adelaide has gone to heav'n.
O charity it covers hosts of sins,
With it real christianity begins;
For he who has no mercy in his breast,
Can never hope for an eternal rest.
Far better that his flesh had not been born,
Than of the milk of human kindness shorn;
There is more hope of glory for the rude—
Untutor'd bosom which can be subdu'd,
Than for the learned and the deeply skill'd,
Whose harden'd hearts have never been distill'd.
Yes! we can fancy yonder cloudlet riv'n,
And charity invited into heav'n.
With it real christianity begins;
For he who has no mercy in his breast,
Can never hope for an eternal rest.
Far better that his flesh had not been born,
Than of the milk of human kindness shorn;
There is more hope of glory for the rude—
Untutor'd bosom which can be subdu'd,
Than for the learned and the deeply skill'd,
Whose harden'd hearts have never been distill'd.
Yes! we can fancy yonder cloudlet riv'n,
And charity invited into heav'n.
But to return to those afflicted hearts,
Daily expos'd to sorrow's bleeding darts,
Whose mis'ries have been stay'd by that fair hand,
Gone to a happier and a better land.
Where now shall the poor villager supply
His wants—he has no labour—must he die?
Or to some pauper prison-house be driv'n—
Of ev'ry comfort—home—wife—children riv'n.
To such the death of Adelaide must be,
Like the apostrophe of “Wo is me.”
No wonder when they hear the tolling bell,
They think the sound is their own funeral.
For dead are all their hopes, now she is gone,
And they are left with misery alone.
Daily expos'd to sorrow's bleeding darts,
Whose mis'ries have been stay'd by that fair hand,
Gone to a happier and a better land.
Where now shall the poor villager supply
His wants—he has no labour—must he die?
Or to some pauper prison-house be driv'n—
Of ev'ry comfort—home—wife—children riv'n.
To such the death of Adelaide must be,
Like the apostrophe of “Wo is me.”
13
They think the sound is their own funeral.
For dead are all their hopes, now she is gone,
And they are left with misery alone.
Methinks I see the stature of a man,
Reduc'd and shrunk by hunger to a span;
Beseeching a last look of a fond wife,
Ere they both sink beneath the load of life;
How can he hear his children cry for bread,
And see them die for food, and not go mad.
God send benevolence in other shape,
Now he has pleas'd Queen Adelaide to take.
O may he in his mercy feed the poor,
And send his ravens daily to the door.
Reduc'd and shrunk by hunger to a span;
Beseeching a last look of a fond wife,
Ere they both sink beneath the load of life;
How can he hear his children cry for bread,
And see them die for food, and not go mad.
God send benevolence in other shape,
Now he has pleas'd Queen Adelaide to take.
O may he in his mercy feed the poor,
And send his ravens daily to the door.
O pardon me, if I digress awhile—
And speak about the misery of our isle;
Apostrophize starvation—shocking theme—
Which ought to be in England but a dream.
Would that my muse could ope the miser's door,
To succour and relieve the houseless poor.
How many famish'd wretches do we view,
Shaking with cold, and pinch'd by hunger too—
Dragging their meagre limbs along the street,
Like living spectres in a winding sheet.
O! were we but to enter in the glooms,
Of dismal, dark, and solitary rooms,
And there behold the skeletons that lie
Down in the depths of human misery.
How would the heart recoil upon itself,
And sicken at the thought of mis-spent wealth.
Soul-harrow'd sight—well may the pulses thrill,
As if they felt an adder—cold and chill,
To see a corse so shrivell'd and so shrunk,
As to appear an empty—fleshless trunk;
So reft of all humanity and shorn,
You cannot recognize the human form.
And this too, in a Babylon that teems
With wealth, magnificence, and gorgeous scenes.
But O! the rich must shortly give account,
For all these agonizing deaths from want;
And many too, will have to lift their eyes,
To where the beggar softly sleeping lies.
What would a lost and miserable wretch
Then give to happy Lazarus, to fetch
One drop of living water from the just,
To cool the tongue, and quench the parching thirst.
O then, ye rich, the while ye have the means,
Visit the poor, and change these dreadful scenes.
O pour the balm into the cup of grief,
And give your own forgetful souls relief.
And speak about the misery of our isle;
Apostrophize starvation—shocking theme—
Which ought to be in England but a dream.
Would that my muse could ope the miser's door,
To succour and relieve the houseless poor.
How many famish'd wretches do we view,
Shaking with cold, and pinch'd by hunger too—
Dragging their meagre limbs along the street,
Like living spectres in a winding sheet.
O! were we but to enter in the glooms,
Of dismal, dark, and solitary rooms,
And there behold the skeletons that lie
Down in the depths of human misery.
How would the heart recoil upon itself,
And sicken at the thought of mis-spent wealth.
Soul-harrow'd sight—well may the pulses thrill,
As if they felt an adder—cold and chill,
To see a corse so shrivell'd and so shrunk,
As to appear an empty—fleshless trunk;
So reft of all humanity and shorn,
You cannot recognize the human form.
14
With wealth, magnificence, and gorgeous scenes.
But O! the rich must shortly give account,
For all these agonizing deaths from want;
And many too, will have to lift their eyes,
To where the beggar softly sleeping lies.
What would a lost and miserable wretch
Then give to happy Lazarus, to fetch
One drop of living water from the just,
To cool the tongue, and quench the parching thirst.
O then, ye rich, the while ye have the means,
Visit the poor, and change these dreadful scenes.
O pour the balm into the cup of grief,
And give your own forgetful souls relief.
How happy christians die—the faith-lock'd breast
Sinks like a zephyr calmly to its rest;
Or as the bright and ever glorious sun,
When his allotted course is duly run;
On undulating waves they seem to lie,
And pant away life's troubles in a sigh;
We almost fancy we can hear the shrill,
Soft voice of angels saying, “Peace, be still.”
On ev'ry lip the breath of prayer is hung,
Moves in the heart, and thrills upon the tongue.
And O, how blessed is it thus to die
With pride so low, and godliness so high.
There are no wailings of the Holy Ghost,
Over a sinner's soul that would be lost,
That would not listen to the gospel's sound,
To loose the cords the wicked one had bound.
Sinks like a zephyr calmly to its rest;
Or as the bright and ever glorious sun,
When his allotted course is duly run;
On undulating waves they seem to lie,
And pant away life's troubles in a sigh;
We almost fancy we can hear the shrill,
Soft voice of angels saying, “Peace, be still.”
On ev'ry lip the breath of prayer is hung,
Moves in the heart, and thrills upon the tongue.
And O, how blessed is it thus to die
With pride so low, and godliness so high.
There are no wailings of the Holy Ghost,
Over a sinner's soul that would be lost,
That would not listen to the gospel's sound,
To loose the cords the wicked one had bound.
Methinks I hear the spirit we have lost,
Singing Hosannas 'midst the heav'nly host;
And on her head a crown of righteousness,
The chosen of Immanuel possess.
And while around the great white throne arrang'd,
She glories in the crown she has exchang'd.
Yes! she has reach'd the everlasting shore,
Where the waves murmur “time shall be no more.”
Surrounded by a troop of angels blest,
She floats along in triumph to her rest;
Her ransom'd spirit limitless and free,
To roam throughout a long eternity.
And in the everlasting chamber lies,
Bath'd in deep bliss, and sweetest extacies;
How blessed thus to tread the starry plain,
To live for ever, and for ever reign.
Pellucid streams of rich abundant grace—
Rivers of light and fountains there embrace.
And mingling in one wide and tranquil sea,
Roll on in bliss and immortality.
Flow on, ye founts of living waters flow,
And cleanse faith's garment pure as driv'n snow.
And if the thoughts of spirits can recur
To earth again, how sweet the thought to her.
She pass'd along the toilsome vale of life
Healing the sick, and soothing sorrow's strife.
How few can bear to look into the glass,
Reflecting all their actions as they pass;
How many—shock'd—would blush to think that they
Had acted so, on such and such a day,
But yet it must be—the great judge must see
All that we've done—however secretly.
And we can all bear record to the worth
Of her, whom we so deeply mourn on earth.
Singing Hosannas 'midst the heav'nly host;
And on her head a crown of righteousness,
The chosen of Immanuel possess.
And while around the great white throne arrang'd,
She glories in the crown she has exchang'd.
15
Where the waves murmur “time shall be no more.”
Surrounded by a troop of angels blest,
She floats along in triumph to her rest;
Her ransom'd spirit limitless and free,
To roam throughout a long eternity.
And in the everlasting chamber lies,
Bath'd in deep bliss, and sweetest extacies;
How blessed thus to tread the starry plain,
To live for ever, and for ever reign.
Pellucid streams of rich abundant grace—
Rivers of light and fountains there embrace.
And mingling in one wide and tranquil sea,
Roll on in bliss and immortality.
Flow on, ye founts of living waters flow,
And cleanse faith's garment pure as driv'n snow.
And if the thoughts of spirits can recur
To earth again, how sweet the thought to her.
She pass'd along the toilsome vale of life
Healing the sick, and soothing sorrow's strife.
How few can bear to look into the glass,
Reflecting all their actions as they pass;
How many—shock'd—would blush to think that they
Had acted so, on such and such a day,
But yet it must be—the great judge must see
All that we've done—however secretly.
And we can all bear record to the worth
Of her, whom we so deeply mourn on earth.
The royal sufferer before she died,
Divested herself of all worldly pride,
'Twas her desire, and earnestly express'd,
Without embalming her cold corse should rest.
She knew the poor and tabernacled flesh,
Would have new garments to put on afresh.
Embalm'd by faith, she needed not her clay
To be preserv'd, she wish'd it to decay;
Untouch'd—unstain'd—her body was to lie
In the cold tomb of some quiet sanctuary;
Divested herself of all worldly pride,
'Twas her desire, and earnestly express'd,
Without embalming her cold corse should rest.
She knew the poor and tabernacled flesh,
Would have new garments to put on afresh.
Embalm'd by faith, she needed not her clay
To be preserv'd, she wish'd it to decay;
16
In the cold tomb of some quiet sanctuary;
It was a christian wish—why should the dead
Need spices and exotics for their bed:
And why should busy hands profane the mould—
Disturb the ashes of a clay so cold.
Such is one misery of royalty,
Of which thank God, the subject is quite free.
But the barbaric usages of old,
Are now becoming like a tale that's told.
Need spices and exotics for their bed:
And why should busy hands profane the mould—
Disturb the ashes of a clay so cold.
Such is one misery of royalty,
Of which thank God, the subject is quite free.
But the barbaric usages of old,
Are now becoming like a tale that's told.
The spirit that we mourn, ere its release,
Departed both with God and man at peace.
And clinging to the cross with fervent faith,
Died full of hope, and smooth'd the bed of death.
To show her meekness and her humble mind,
She wish'd her lifeless corse to be consign'd
In the most private manner to the grave,
Without the pomp that royalty should have.
Departed both with God and man at peace.
And clinging to the cross with fervent faith,
Died full of hope, and smooth'd the bed of death.
To show her meekness and her humble mind,
She wish'd her lifeless corse to be consign'd
In the most private manner to the grave,
Without the pomp that royalty should have.
O what a solemn mockery of wo,
To make a funeral a public show;
Parade the body thro' a gaping crowd
Of idlers, who profane the saintly shroud;
And with a look both meaningless and dull,
Proclaim the sight as grand and beautiful.
To make a funeral a public show;
Parade the body thro' a gaping crowd
Of idlers, who profane the saintly shroud;
And with a look both meaningless and dull,
Proclaim the sight as grand and beautiful.
Lying in state too—is opposed to all
The solemn feelings which become the pall.
The gifted Queen for whom our harp is strung,
Preferr'd her cold remains to lie among
The quiet seclusion of the Priory walls,
Than 'midst the paraphernalia of halls.
O there is something tranquil in the thought
Peacefully sad—religiously devout.
Why should a thoughtless crowd press round to see
The common lot of all humanity,
Why should the privacy of death become
Notorious as the noontide of the sun.
And the cold face so reverenc'd, expos'd
To the world's gaze—the rude and ill-dispos'd.
The solemn feelings which become the pall.
The gifted Queen for whom our harp is strung,
Preferr'd her cold remains to lie among
The quiet seclusion of the Priory walls,
Than 'midst the paraphernalia of halls.
O there is something tranquil in the thought
Peacefully sad—religiously devout.
Why should a thoughtless crowd press round to see
The common lot of all humanity,
Why should the privacy of death become
Notorious as the noontide of the sun.
17
To the world's gaze—the rude and ill-dispos'd.
This is another bramble and a thorn
To heirs of royalty—the regal born—
To be laid out upon a bed of state,
Surrounded by the trappings of the great;
When death has levell'd the pale corse to dust,
And as the poorest serf lies—so it must.
To heirs of royalty—the regal born—
To be laid out upon a bed of state,
Surrounded by the trappings of the great;
When death has levell'd the pale corse to dust,
And as the poorest serf lies—so it must.
But ah! amidst our reverie there comes
A mournful sound, like distant minute guns.
Whence is this hum? from yonder market cross,
The rustic group first hear their heavy loss;
Assembled round a pastor chok'd with grief,
They hear the sad intelligence in brief—
A cry of anguish pierces thro' the air,
And booms along the valley in despair.
A mournful sound, like distant minute guns.
Whence is this hum? from yonder market cross,
The rustic group first hear their heavy loss;
Assembled round a pastor chok'd with grief,
They hear the sad intelligence in brief—
A cry of anguish pierces thro' the air,
And booms along the valley in despair.
But we must now approach the dreary pall,
And speak about the solemn funeral.
Morn slowly breaks, and heavy hangs the dew,
Pearl'd on the thorn, the ivy, and the yew:
Nature herself a solemn liv'ry wears,
And seems wrapp'd up in a cold mist of tears;
And never did her smiling face assume
A sadder aspect, or a deeper gloom.
And speak about the solemn funeral.
Morn slowly breaks, and heavy hangs the dew,
Pearl'd on the thorn, the ivy, and the yew:
Nature herself a solemn liv'ry wears,
And seems wrapp'd up in a cold mist of tears;
And never did her smiling face assume
A sadder aspect, or a deeper gloom.
Now see the coffin, slowly borne, approach,
Follow'd by noble ladies to the porch—
Yes, to the very threshold do they come,
To see their mistress go to her last home;
And there in spite of courtly etiquette,
They drop the tear of sorrow and regret;
And midst their sobs of anguish, you can hear
The wailing of the household in the rear.
And as they place the body in the hearse,
A troop of the life guards salute the corse;
The trumpeters then give a flourish shrill,
And after a few moments—all is still.
A group of villagers form in a row,
And pensive stand in attitudes of wo,
Bending their eyes with grief upon the sod,
And lifting up their simple hearts to God.
The spirit's wailing is distinctly heard,
For the deep springs of nature have been stirr'd.
Heart-springing grief can never be supprest,
Wrung from the soul it must be manifest.
And nothing proves sound principles so much
As sorrow's tender—sympathetic touch.
One tear-drop does more honor to the mind,
Than all the pearls antiquity can find.
Follow'd by noble ladies to the porch—
Yes, to the very threshold do they come,
To see their mistress go to her last home;
And there in spite of courtly etiquette,
They drop the tear of sorrow and regret;
And midst their sobs of anguish, you can hear
The wailing of the household in the rear.
And as they place the body in the hearse,
A troop of the life guards salute the corse;
The trumpeters then give a flourish shrill,
And after a few moments—all is still.
18
And pensive stand in attitudes of wo,
Bending their eyes with grief upon the sod,
And lifting up their simple hearts to God.
The spirit's wailing is distinctly heard,
For the deep springs of nature have been stirr'd.
Heart-springing grief can never be supprest,
Wrung from the soul it must be manifest.
And nothing proves sound principles so much
As sorrow's tender—sympathetic touch.
One tear-drop does more honor to the mind,
Than all the pearls antiquity can find.
They come to see the last of her—the end
Of a Samaritan and godly friend.
Unable longer to contain their grief,
Nature bursts out and bubbles up relief.
And as the hearse moves off they rend the air
With piercing cries of anguish and despair;
And it must cause the heart some poignant throbs,
To hear the deep and agonising sobs
Of women, who poor widows have been left,
And feel themselves of ev'ry hope bereft.
Of a Samaritan and godly friend.
Unable longer to contain their grief,
Nature bursts out and bubbles up relief.
And as the hearse moves off they rend the air
With piercing cries of anguish and despair;
And it must cause the heart some poignant throbs,
To hear the deep and agonising sobs
Of women, who poor widows have been left,
And feel themselves of ev'ry hope bereft.
Ah! see, there comes the slowly moving hearse,
Which makes my weeping muse stop in her verse.
Poor Adelaide! tho' born to be a Queen,
Thy presence was so gentle and serene,
That hard must be the heart that does not feel,
The pulse throb, when it hears thy hearse's wheel.
As crushing down the carriage way it comes,
And grinds to powder the small pebble stones;
There's nothing sounds so solemn or so harsh—
So harrows up the soul as the wheel's crash.
Which makes my weeping muse stop in her verse.
Poor Adelaide! tho' born to be a Queen,
Thy presence was so gentle and serene,
That hard must be the heart that does not feel,
The pulse throb, when it hears thy hearse's wheel.
As crushing down the carriage way it comes,
And grinds to powder the small pebble stones;
There's nothing sounds so solemn or so harsh—
So harrows up the soul as the wheel's crash.
All is conducted privately and plain,
And gives the musing mind a proper frame.
A solemn dignity appears in all,
And the heart feels it sees a funeral.
No eager crowds are pressing here and there,
To make the house of mourning like a fair;
But all is decent grief and sober mien,
And the real pathos of the heart is seen.
And gives the musing mind a proper frame.
A solemn dignity appears in all,
And the heart feels it sees a funeral.
19
To make the house of mourning like a fair;
But all is decent grief and sober mien,
And the real pathos of the heart is seen.
Slow 'thro the country wends the funeral train.
And winds among the hills, and o'er the plain,
To where the royal standard floats on high,
And with a feudal grandeur sweeps the sky,
O'er Windsor's lofty turrets—pond'rous heap
Of massive buildings, and enormous keep,
Frowning with regal splendour o'er the Thames
Which slowly winds along the distant plains.
And where St. George's rears its gorgeous pile—
The burial place of monarchs of our isle—
The royal mausoleum of a race
Of kings, who make it their last resting place.
Escutcheon'd and emblazon'd by the shields,
Of heroes who have bled on hard-fought fields.
Whilst o'er the whole, proud knightly banners wave,
Of garter'd noble, and the warrior brave.
And winds among the hills, and o'er the plain,
To where the royal standard floats on high,
And with a feudal grandeur sweeps the sky,
O'er Windsor's lofty turrets—pond'rous heap
Of massive buildings, and enormous keep,
Frowning with regal splendour o'er the Thames
Which slowly winds along the distant plains.
And where St. George's rears its gorgeous pile—
The burial place of monarchs of our isle—
The royal mausoleum of a race
Of kings, who make it their last resting place.
Escutcheon'd and emblazon'd by the shields,
Of heroes who have bled on hard-fought fields.
Whilst o'er the whole, proud knightly banners wave,
Of garter'd noble, and the warrior brave.
Thou, costly pile, could we descend beneath
Thy fretted vaults, and chambers of cold death,
What skeletons of grandeur should we see;
Wrecks of past greatness—shreds of royalty.
Pent in thy coffins, 'neath the rich chas'd lid,
How many bones and relics are there hid;
Ashes of monarchs mould'ring into dust,
Sepulchral urns, and monuments of rust,
Thy fretted vaults, and chambers of cold death,
What skeletons of grandeur should we see;
Wrecks of past greatness—shreds of royalty.
Pent in thy coffins, 'neath the rich chas'd lid,
How many bones and relics are there hid;
Ashes of monarchs mould'ring into dust,
Sepulchral urns, and monuments of rust,
But hark! there comes a drowsy sort of hum,
Like the sound beat upon a muffled drum.
The mourners gather round the chapel walls,
And we can hear their murmurs and footfalls.
Like the sound beat upon a muffled drum.
The mourners gather round the chapel walls,
And we can hear their murmurs and footfalls.
Hark! how the tolling of the bell it twangs—
And rudely throbs against the heart's deep pangs:
A racking agony thrills thro' the frame,
Beats in the breast, and aches in ev'ry vein.
While echo mournfully repeats the toll,
And strikes afresh the anguish of the soul.
How solemn is the sound of a death bell,
Speaking to earth the body's last farewell;
Ere it is sepulchred below in dust,
Till the last trump, the grave's dark bondage burst.
And rudely throbs against the heart's deep pangs:
A racking agony thrills thro' the frame,
Beats in the breast, and aches in ev'ry vein.
20
And strikes afresh the anguish of the soul.
How solemn is the sound of a death bell,
Speaking to earth the body's last farewell;
Ere it is sepulchred below in dust,
Till the last trump, the grave's dark bondage burst.
And see the funeral comes in broad mid-day.
Full in the blaze of a meridian ray;
And so it should be, when our course has run,
Why should we fear to meet the glorious sun.
Wherefore should royalty, at dead of night,
Be buried by the glare of a torch-light;
Amid a gloom unearthly, and a gleam
Shed by the waning of a faint moonbeam.
Full in the blaze of a meridian ray;
And so it should be, when our course has run,
Why should we fear to meet the glorious sun.
Wherefore should royalty, at dead of night,
Be buried by the glare of a torch-light;
Amid a gloom unearthly, and a gleam
Shed by the waning of a faint moonbeam.
Lo! see the shade of a prelate pass by,
Who came to a night burial to die;
Standing too long expos'd to the chill air,
Death aim'd his dart, and struck the mitre there.
Who came to a night burial to die;
Standing too long expos'd to the chill air,
Death aim'd his dart, and struck the mitre there.
To show the deep respect in which she held,
The flag which floats in triumph round the world;
She wish'd to be attended to the grave
By British tars the bravest of the brave.
The navy was her royal husband's star,
It was his glory to be thought a tar.
Nor is it out of place to drop a tear,
For one whose memory we all hold dear.
Now that we lay Queen Adelaide beside
The coffin'd ashes of her only pride.
The flag which floats in triumph round the world;
She wish'd to be attended to the grave
By British tars the bravest of the brave.
The navy was her royal husband's star,
It was his glory to be thought a tar.
Nor is it out of place to drop a tear,
For one whose memory we all hold dear.
Now that we lay Queen Adelaide beside
The coffin'd ashes of her only pride.
In strict compliance with her last request,
A band of sailors follow her to rest.
They come to bear the body and the pall,
Which is the most affecting sight of all.
To see their sturdy strength support the bier,
And suff'ring nature trickle down a tear;
Yes! nature in bold hearts is ever weak—
The fastest tears roll down the bravest cheek.
And it would make the coldest cynic grieve,
To see them brush them off with the rough sleeve
In vain they cough, and knit the brow, and frown,
The gushing fountain bubbles up and down:
The gen'rous current once brought into play,
Floods the warm heart, and leads the pulse away,
A band of sailors follow her to rest.
They come to bear the body and the pall,
Which is the most affecting sight of all.
To see their sturdy strength support the bier,
And suff'ring nature trickle down a tear;
Yes! nature in bold hearts is ever weak—
The fastest tears roll down the bravest cheek.
21
To see them brush them off with the rough sleeve
In vain they cough, and knit the brow, and frown,
The gushing fountain bubbles up and down:
The gen'rous current once brought into play,
Floods the warm heart, and leads the pulse away,
How holy is the tear-gush as it runs
Down the rude cheeks of these brave Neptune's son
A tear hath more of dignity and grace
Pearl'd on the margin of a sun-burnt face,
Than dropping down in sentimental grief,
Upon the cambric of a handkerchief.
Down the rude cheeks of these brave Neptune's son
A tear hath more of dignity and grace
Pearl'd on the margin of a sun-burnt face,
Than dropping down in sentimental grief,
Upon the cambric of a handkerchief.
The body now has reach'd its destin'd goal,
And looks its last on the departed soul.
Till re-united at the judgment day,
Ransom'd and free, they wing themselves away.
And now we hear, with an emotion rife,
“I am the resurrection and the life.”
Softly and sweet the sacred anthem swells,
And pours into the ear its solemn knells;
Warning the soul that soon it must take flight,
To realms of darkness or to realms of light.
And looks its last on the departed soul.
Till re-united at the judgment day,
Ransom'd and free, they wing themselves away.
And now we hear, with an emotion rife,
“I am the resurrection and the life.”
Softly and sweet the sacred anthem swells,
And pours into the ear its solemn knells;
Warning the soul that soon it must take flight,
To realms of darkness or to realms of light.
Now peals the organ with a solemn strain,
So touching that it makes us weep again.
The coffin it is lower'd—“Dust to dust”
Are words that make the sternest bosom burst.
O how affecting is the sprinkling earth,
How it reminds us of our humble birth,
And now we see it sprinkled on a crown,
To show all earthly grandeur it has flown;
And all are on a level in the grave—
And the same turf hides monarch and the slave.
So touching that it makes us weep again.
The coffin it is lower'd—“Dust to dust”
Are words that make the sternest bosom burst.
O how affecting is the sprinkling earth,
How it reminds us of our humble birth,
And now we see it sprinkled on a crown,
To show all earthly grandeur it has flown;
And all are on a level in the grave—
And the same turf hides monarch and the slave.
The noble lady we have seen interr'd
Abominated pride in deed and word;
Tho' born to highest station, she became
Lowly and gentle to the meanest swain;
That all are equal, daily she enjoin'd—
A feeling worthy of her noble mind.
Abominated pride in deed and word;
Tho' born to highest station, she became
Lowly and gentle to the meanest swain;
22
A feeling worthy of her noble mind.
The patient suff'rer ere the spirit fled,
Requested that her body might be laid
Beside her husband's, in the silent tomb,
Or vault beneath St. George's sainted dome,
Obedient to her wish, there rests her clay,
And side by side the royal corses lay.
Yes, she has gone, and 'neath St. George's aisle,
Her body rests upon the sacred pile;
Rigid as marble is the beauteous form,
That grac'd the hamlet and adorn'd the throne.
Quench'd are those orbs that look'd so soft and blue,
When gentle pity bath'd them in its dew;
And which so oft distill'd those drops serene,
Which make the cup of sorrow but a dream.
Requested that her body might be laid
Beside her husband's, in the silent tomb,
Or vault beneath St. George's sainted dome,
Obedient to her wish, there rests her clay,
And side by side the royal corses lay.
Yes, she has gone, and 'neath St. George's aisle,
Her body rests upon the sacred pile;
Rigid as marble is the beauteous form,
That grac'd the hamlet and adorn'd the throne.
Quench'd are those orbs that look'd so soft and blue,
When gentle pity bath'd them in its dew;
And which so oft distill'd those drops serene,
Which make the cup of sorrow but a dream.
O it is hard to lose the soothing balm,
That us'd to make the cottage snug and warm;
The chilling infant swathe in fleecy wool,
And fill the widow's cruse, and keep it full.
O these are things so wond'rous, and so rare,
So chaste, so heavenly—so good, so fair:
No wonder charity is placed above
E'en faith and hope, in tenderness and love:
And what saith the Apostle of “these three,”
The greatest of them all is “charity.”
And we are led to look upon the tomb
Of Adelaide, as “charity in bloom.”
The lovely flow'r bends o'er the lowly grave,
As if it wish'd, or had the pow'r to save.
That us'd to make the cottage snug and warm;
The chilling infant swathe in fleecy wool,
And fill the widow's cruse, and keep it full.
O these are things so wond'rous, and so rare,
So chaste, so heavenly—so good, so fair:
No wonder charity is placed above
E'en faith and hope, in tenderness and love:
And what saith the Apostle of “these three,”
The greatest of them all is “charity.”
And we are led to look upon the tomb
Of Adelaide, as “charity in bloom.”
The lovely flow'r bends o'er the lowly grave,
As if it wish'd, or had the pow'r to save.
O then, methinks, I see the lov'd one rise,
And leave the mausoleum for the skies:
The flow'r of charity wreath'd o'er her brow,
A golden girdle round her robe of snow.
Two smiling cherubs meet her in the path,
With a white dove, and branch of amaranth,
And long palms in their hands wav'd to and fro,
To show their sister which way she should go.
And leave the mausoleum for the skies:
The flow'r of charity wreath'd o'er her brow,
A golden girdle round her robe of snow.
Two smiling cherubs meet her in the path,
With a white dove, and branch of amaranth,
23
To show their sister which way she should go.
And lo what troops of shadowy forms await
The new translated one at heaven's gate;
While bands of harpists touch the golden strings,
And the whole universe of heaven rings
With hallelujahs, and melodious lays,
And charity the theme of all their praise.
They cease,—and now celestial voices shrill,
The starry courts and heav'nly mansions fill.
Thanksgiving hymns for mercies daily giv'n,
And the new entrance of a saint to heav'n.
And see, she makes communion with the saints;
Her buoyant spirit free from all restraints.
Thither come Moses, Abraham, Isaac too,
And all the seers of scripture old and new;
A countless number,—prophets, martyrs, all
Who in an humble faith on Jesu call;
And then an angel on a great white throne,
Puts on the new-born saint a golden crown,
A palm branch in her hand, and then proclaims
Her unity, in loud hosanna strains.
Hosanna in the highest! for the cry
Is great in heaven, for faith's victory.
O Vision cease not: let me still behold
The mighty angel and the throne of gold;
Placing a crown upon the sainted head
Of her whose body we now mourn as dead.
The new translated one at heaven's gate;
While bands of harpists touch the golden strings,
And the whole universe of heaven rings
With hallelujahs, and melodious lays,
And charity the theme of all their praise.
They cease,—and now celestial voices shrill,
The starry courts and heav'nly mansions fill.
Thanksgiving hymns for mercies daily giv'n,
And the new entrance of a saint to heav'n.
And see, she makes communion with the saints;
Her buoyant spirit free from all restraints.
Thither come Moses, Abraham, Isaac too,
And all the seers of scripture old and new;
A countless number,—prophets, martyrs, all
Who in an humble faith on Jesu call;
And then an angel on a great white throne,
Puts on the new-born saint a golden crown,
A palm branch in her hand, and then proclaims
Her unity, in loud hosanna strains.
Hosanna in the highest! for the cry
Is great in heaven, for faith's victory.
O Vision cease not: let me still behold
The mighty angel and the throne of gold;
Placing a crown upon the sainted head
Of her whose body we now mourn as dead.
O death thou hast no sting, no secret fear,
If we behold thee with a vision clear.
Thro' a bright-mirror'd faith thy gloom divide,
And look upon thy sun-ward—brighter side.
To earth—thou dost appear a dark eclipse,
Men speak of thee with terror on their lips.
To faith—which looks thy dismal valley thro',
Thou hast the heav'nly Canaan in view;
And com'st but as a messenger of love
A shadow we must pass to realms above.
“She is not dead, but sleepeth,” is a thought
We seldom do reflect on, as we ought.
The good can never die, their virtues live,
And after death the sweetest odours give.
'Tis in the record of a life well spent,
They build their own un-dying monument.
They do not need the sculptor's skilful art—
Their tablets are engraven on the heart.
The fleshly fibres and the tender strings,
From whence the finest feeling always springs.
Embalm'd in memory and his'try's page,
Their remin'scences live from age to age!
The recollection of their godly acts,
Throughout all time are recognis'd as facts.
If we behold thee with a vision clear.
Thro' a bright-mirror'd faith thy gloom divide,
And look upon thy sun-ward—brighter side.
To earth—thou dost appear a dark eclipse,
Men speak of thee with terror on their lips.
To faith—which looks thy dismal valley thro',
Thou hast the heav'nly Canaan in view;
24
A shadow we must pass to realms above.
“She is not dead, but sleepeth,” is a thought
We seldom do reflect on, as we ought.
The good can never die, their virtues live,
And after death the sweetest odours give.
'Tis in the record of a life well spent,
They build their own un-dying monument.
They do not need the sculptor's skilful art—
Their tablets are engraven on the heart.
The fleshly fibres and the tender strings,
From whence the finest feeling always springs.
Embalm'd in memory and his'try's page,
Their remin'scences live from age to age!
The recollection of their godly acts,
Throughout all time are recognis'd as facts.
And she shall never die, whose dirge we sing,
Year after year the muse shall freshly bring
The flow'rs of poesy to deck the tomb,
And keep the sod in a perpetual bloom.
Like an oasis or a spot of green
In a wide desert, shall her grave be seen.
Remembrance shall not fail—for her good deeds
Are known the moment that a bosom bleeds;
And felt by thousands who her loss deplore,
For she can feed their little ones no more.
Year after year the muse shall freshly bring
The flow'rs of poesy to deck the tomb,
And keep the sod in a perpetual bloom.
Like an oasis or a spot of green
In a wide desert, shall her grave be seen.
Remembrance shall not fail—for her good deeds
Are known the moment that a bosom bleeds;
And felt by thousands who her loss deplore,
For she can feed their little ones no more.
While gentle pity shall bedew a tear,
Faith, hope, and charity, be treasur'd here.
The tuneful lyre shall seek the muses aid,
And sing the virtues of Queen Adelaide.
Faith, hope, and charity, be treasur'd here.
The tuneful lyre shall seek the muses aid,
And sing the virtues of Queen Adelaide.
| Death of the Queen Dowager | |