148
poems.
And here Spain's haughty daughter stands, the fair but false coquette,
Breathing, in bitterness of soul, her deep but vain regret.
Breathing, in bitterness of soul, her deep but vain regret.
Beneath the sunny skies of France, and mid her laughing bowers,
Fair Marguerite her crown receives, a wreath of thorn- less flowers.
Not for her rank or grace, they twine the rose-leaf o'er her brow,
But hearts in willing homage here, before La Rosiére bow.
Fair Marguerite her crown receives, a wreath of thorn- less flowers.
Not for her rank or grace, they twine the rose-leaf o'er her brow,
But hearts in willing homage here, before La Rosiére bow.
****
Thou jewel of a father's love, the treasure of his heart!
Meekly, in filial tenderness, thy soul hath borne its part.
A tongue more gifted far than mine should sing the virtuous deed,
And strains more eloquent should rise to be thy fitting meed.
Meekly, in filial tenderness, thy soul hath borne its part.
A tongue more gifted far than mine should sing the virtuous deed,
And strains more eloquent should rise to be thy fitting meed.
Thou, who hast been the cherished gem of his parental pride,
A mother to those lambs, to whom that blessing was denied;
Thine earthly pathway, may it be with countless treasures strewn,
And may'st thou fondly call the love of many a heart thine own.
A mother to those lambs, to whom that blessing was denied;
Thine earthly pathway, may it be with countless treasures strewn,
And may'st thou fondly call the love of many a heart thine own.
And late at life's sweet eventide, when thou shalt sink to rest,
By many a well-remembered deed, O! be thy moments blest;
By many a well-remembered deed, O! be thy moments blest;
