Felicia Hemans in The Monthly Magazine Volume 2 1826/The Queen of Prussia's Tomb

For other versions of this work, see The Queen of Prussia's Tomb.
2930397Felicia Hemans in The Monthly Magazine Volume 2 1826 — The Queen of Prussia's Tomb1826Felicia Hemans

The Monthly Magazine, Volume 2, Pages 627-628


THE QUEEN OF PRUSSIA'S TOMB.

 
"Courage was cast about her like a dress
    Of solemn comeliness;
A gathered mind and an untroubled face
    Did give her dangers grace."


It stands where northern willows weep,
    A temple fair and lone;
Soft shadows o'er its marble sweep,
    From cypress branches thrown;

While silently around it spread,
Thou feel'st the presence of the dead.

And what within is richly shrined?—
    A sculptured woman's form,
Lovely in perfect rest reclined,
    As one beyond the storm:
Yet not of death, but slumber, lies
The solemn sweetness on those eyes.*[1]

The folded hands, the calm pure face,
    The mantle's quiet flow,
The gentle, yet majestic grace,
    Throned on the matron brow:—
These, in that scene of tender gloom,
With a still glory robe the tomb.

There stands an eagle, at the feet
    Of the fair image wrought—
A kingly emblem—nor unmeet
    To wake yet deeper thought:
She, whose high heart finds rest below,
Was royal in her birth and woe.

There are pale garlands hung above
    Of dying scent and hue;
She was a mother—in her love
    How sorrowfully true!
Oh! hallowed long be every leaf,
The record of her children's grief!

She saw their birthright's warrior-crown
    Of olden glory spoiled—
The standard of their sires bore down—
    The shield's bright blazon soiled:
She met the tempest meekly brave,
Then turned, o'erwearied, to the grave.

She slumbered; but it came—it came,
    Her land's redeeming hour,
With the glad shout and signal-flame,
    Sent on from tower to tower:
Fast through the land a spirit moved—
'Twas her's, the lofty and the loved.

Then was her name a word that rung
    To rouse bold hearts from sleep;
Her memory, as a banner flung
    Forth by the Baltic deep:
Her grief, a bitter vial poured
To sanctify th' Avenger's sword.

And the proud eagle spread again
    Its pinion to the sun;
And the strong land shook off its chain—
    So was the triumph won!
But woe for earth! where Sorrow's tone
Still blends with Victory's!—she was gone!F. H.

  1. * The character of this monumental statue is that of the deepest serenity; the repose, however, of sleep—not the grave.—See the description in Russell's "Germany."