And she, who, tried thro' all the stormy past,
Severely, deeply proved, in many an hour,
Watch'd o'er thee, firm and faithful to the last,
Sustain'd, inspired, by strong affection's power;
If to thy soul her voice no music bore,
If thy closed eye, and wandering spirit caught
No light from looks, that fondly would explore
Thy mien, for traces of responsive thought;
Oh! thou wert spared the pang that would have thrill'd,
Thine inmost heart, when Death that anxious bosom still'd.
Thy lov'd ones fell around thee—manhood's prime,
Youth, with its glory, in its fulness, Age,
All, at the gates of their eternal clime
Lay down, and closed their mortal pilgrimage;
The land wore ashes for its perish'd flowers,
The grave's imperial harvest. Thou, meanwhile,
Didst walk unconscious thro' thy royal towers,
The one that wept not in the tearful isle!
As a tired warrior, on his battle-plain,
Breathes deep in dreams amidst the mourners and the slain
