CAROLINE MATILDA, TO CHRISTIAN THE SEVENTH OF DENMARK.
From gloomy Zell, where shades usurp the day,
Where hopeless grief in secret pines away,
To Denmark's distant clime these lays I send,
To seek the husband, not to find the friend.—
—How hard my fate! although to power allied,
A monarch's daughter, and a monarch's bride,
Torn from those joys that strew'd my path with bloom,
And sternly coffin'd in a living tomb.—
——Oh! by the memory of that love which bore
My early youth from Albion's sacred shore,
By that first ardour guiltless and divine,
Which moved to leave a parent's arms for thine,
By all the hopes that lured my trusting mind,
By all thy vows, if vows thy soul can bind,
Bend to my woes!—but ah, how vain the plea
That summons pity or remorse from thee.—
—Cold as the icy girdle of thy shores,
Deaf as the storm that o'er thy mountains pours,
I see thee wield the sceptre, scourge and chain,
And rule despotic o'er a trembling train.—
—Unfading traces of thy cruel sway
Glare in my soul and fright mild sleep away,—
Thy victim's throng,—I mark the ghastly train,
Their straining eye-balls start with bloodshot pain,
The brave Struensee!—say,—what crime had he
To kindle hatred or revenge in thee?—
He mounts the scaffold,— dark with curdled gore;
He falls,—he bleeds,—his bosom heaves no more;
