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And shall the scene no more show forth

His sternly pleasing brow!
Alas, the moral brings a tear !-

"Tis all a transient hour below;
And we that would detain thee here,

Ourselves as fleetly go !
Yet shall our latest age

This parting scene review :-
Pride of the British stage,

A long and last adieu !

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On the first opening of the House after the death of the

Princess Charlotte, 1817

BRITONS ! although our task is but to show
The scenes and passions of fictitious wo,
Think not we come this night without a part
In that deep sorrow of the public heart,
Which like a shade hath darkened ev'ry place,
And moistened with å tear the manliest face!
The bell is scarcely hushed in Windsor's piles,
That tolled a requiem from the solemn aisles,
For her, the royal flower, low laid in dust,
That was your fairest hope, your fondest trust.
Unconscious of the doom, we dreamt, alas !
That ev’n these walls, ere many months should pass,
Which but return sad accents for her now,
Perhaps had witnessed her benignant brow,

Cheered by the voice you would have raised on high,
In bursts of British love and loyalty.
But, Britain ! now thy chies, thy people mourn,
And Claremont's home of love is left forlorn :
There, where the happiest of the happy dwelt,
The 'scutcheon glooms, and royalty hath felt
A wound that ev'ry bosom feels its own,
The blessing of a father's heart o'erthrown-
The most beloved and most devoted bride
Torn from an agonized husband's side,
Who “ long as .memory holds her seat” shall view
That speechless, more than spoken last adieu,
When the fixed eye long looked connubial faith,
And beamed affection in the trance of death.
Sad was the pomp that yesternight beheld,
As with the mourner's heart the anthem swelled ;
While torch succeeding torch illumed each high
And bannered arch of England's chivalry.
'i he rich plumed canopy, the gorgeous pall,
The sacred march, and sable-vested wall-
These were not rites of inexpressive show,
But hallowed as the types of real wo !
Daughter of England ! for a nation's sighs,
A nation's heart went with thine obsequies !
And oft shall time revert a look of grief
On thine existence, beautiful and brief.
Fair spirit! send thy blessing from above
On realms where thou art canonized by love'
Give to a father's, husband's bleeding mind,
That

peace that angels lend to humankind;
To us who in thy loved remembrance seel
A sorrowing, but a soul ennobling zeal-
A loyalty that touches all the best
And loftiest principles of England's breast !
Still may thy name speak concord from the tomb ;
Still in the Muse's breath thy memory bloom !

They shall describe thy life—thy form portray
But all the love that mourns thee swept away,
'Tis not in language or expressive arts
To paint-ye feel it, Britons, in your hearts !

LINES,

On receiving a seal with the Campbell Crest, from

K. M. , before her marriage.
This wax returns not back more fair,

Th' impression of the gift you send,
Than stamped upon my thoughts I bear

The image of your worth, my friend !-
We are not friends of yesterday :

But poet's fancies are a little
Disposed to heat and cool, (they say,)-

By turns impressible and brittle.
Well! should its frailty e'er condemn

My heart to prize or please you less,
Your type is still the sealing gem,

And mine the waxen brittleness..

What transcripts of my weal and wo

This little signet yet may lock,
What utt'rances to friend or foe,

In reason's calm or passion's shock!
What scenes of life's yet curtained page

May own its confidential die,
Whose stamp awaits th' unwritten page

And feelings of futurity !

The tempest, raging o'er the realms of ice,
Shook fragments from the risted precipice;
And whilst their falling echoed to the wind,
The woll's long howl in dismal discord joined,
While white yon water's foam was raised in clouds
That whirled like spirits wailing in their shrouds;
Without was Nature's elemental din
And beauty died, and friendship wept within !

Sweet Julia, though her fate was finished hall, Still knew him-smiled on him with seeble laugh, And blest him, till she drew her latest sigh! But lo! while Udolph's bursts of agony, And age's tremulous wailings, round him rose, What accents pierced him deeper yet than those ! 'Twas tidings-by his English messenger Of Constance-brief and terrible they were. She still was living when the page set out From home, but whether now was left in doubt. Poor Julia ! saw he then thy death's relief, Stunned into stupor more than wrung with grief? It was not strange; for in the human breast Two master-passions cannot coexist. And that alarm which now usurped his brain Shut out not only peace, but other pain. 'Twas fancying Constance underneath the shroud That covered Julia made him first weep loud, And tear himself away from them that wept. Fast hurrying homeward, night nor day he slept, Till, launched at sea, he dreamt that his soul's saint Clung to him on a bridge of ice, pale, faint, O'er cataracts of blood. Awake, he blessed The shore; nor hope left utterly his breast, Till reaching home, terrific omen! there *he straw-laid street preluded his despair

The servant's look—the table that revealed
His letter sent to Constance last, still sealed,
Though speech and hearing left him, told too clear
That he had now to suffer—not to fear.
He felt as if he ne'er should cease to feel
A wretch live-broken on misfortune's wheel : [Heaven.
Her death's cause—he might make his peace with
Absolved from guilt, but never self-forgiven.

The ocean has its ebbings—so has grief.
'Twas vent to anguish, if 'twas not relief,
To lay his brow even on her death-cold cheek.
Then first he heard her one kind sister speak:
She bade him, in the name of Heaven, forbear
With self-reproach to deepen his despair :
“ 'Twas blame," she said, “I shudder to relate,
But none of yours that caused our darling's fate ;
Her mother (must I call her such ?) foresaw,
Should Constance leave the land, she would withdraw
Our house's charm against the world's neglect,
The only gem that drew it some respect.
Hence, when you went, she came and vainly spoke
To change her purpose-grew incensed, and broke
With execrations from her kneeling child.
Start not! your angel from her knee rose mild,
Feared that she should not long the scene outlive,
Yet bade e'en you the unnatural one forgive.
Till then her ailment had been slight, or none;
But fast she drooped, and fatal pains came on:
Foreseeing their event, she dictated
And signed these words for you.” The letter said.-

Theodric, this is destiny above
Our power to baffle ; bear it then, my love!
Rave not to learn the usage I have borne,
For one true sister left me not forlorn;

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