The dying prayer, with trembling fervor speeds,
For that false monarch, by whose will she bleeds;
For him, who listening on that fatal morn
Hears her death signal o'er the distant lawn
From the deep cannon speaking,
Then springs to mirth and winds his bugle-horn,
And riots while her blood is reeking;—
For him she prays, in seraph tone,
"Oh!—be his sins forgiven!
Who raised me to an earthly throne,
And sends me now, from prison lone,
To be a saint in heaven."
BURIAL OF THE YOUNG.
*
There was an open grave,—and many an eye
Look'd down upon it. Slow the sable hearse
Moved on, as if reluctantly it bare
The young, unwearied form to that cold couch,
Which age and sorrow render sweet to man.
—There seem'd a sadness in the humid air,
Lifting the long grass from those verdant mounds
Where slumber multitudes.—
—There was a train
Of young, fair females, with their brows of bloom,
And shining tresses. Arm in arm they came,
And stood upon the brink of that dark pit,
In pensive beauty, waiting the approach
Of their companion. She was wont to fly,
