THE QUEEN OF PRUSSIA'S TOMB.
153
There are pale garlands hung above,
Of dying scent and hue;—
She was a mother—in her love
How sorrowfully true!
Oh! hallow'd long be every leaf,
The record of her children's grief!
She saw their birthright's warrior-crown
Of olden glory spoil'd,
The standard of their sires borne down,
The shield's bright blazon soiled:
She met the tempest meekly brave,
Then turn'd, o'erwearied, to the grave.
She slumber'd; but it came—it came,
Her land's redeeming hour,
With the glad shout, and signal-flame,
Sent on from tower to tower!
Fast thro' the realm a spirit moved—
'Twas hers, the lofty and the loved.
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