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Shall the poor worm, that shocks thy sight,
The humblest form in Nature's train,
And yet the emblem teach in vain ?
Her beauteous wings of purple pride?
A shapeless man, to earth allied.
Like thee he toil'd, like thee he spun;
His labour ceased, his web was done.
No happier state of being know?
On thee a beam of brighter glow?
To animate an insect frame?
Relume at will the vital flame?
Go, Mortal! in thy reptile state,
Enough to know to thee is given ;
Ar the corner of Wood-street, when day-light appears,
"Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees
ON THE DEATH OF THE PRINCESS
CHARLOTTE. HARK! forth from the abyss a voice proceeds, A long low distant murmur of dread sound, Such as arises when a nation bleeds With some deep and immedicable wound; Through storm and darkness yawns the rending
ground, The gulf is thick with phantoms, but the chief Seems royal still, though with her head discrown'd,
And pale, but lovely with maternal grief, She clasps a babe, to whom her breast yields no relief.
Scion of chiefs and monarchs, where art thou ? Fond hope of many nations, art thou dead ? Could not the grave forget thee, and lay low Some less majestic, less beloved head? In the sad midnight, while my heart still bled, The mother of a moment, o'er thy boy, Death hush'd that pang for ever: with thee fled The present happiness and promised joy Which fill’d the imperial isles so full it seem'd to cloy.
Peasants bring forth in safety. Can it be, Oh thou that wert so happy, so adored! Those who weep not for kings shall weep for thee, And Freedom's heart, grown heavy, cease to hoard Her many griess for ONE; for she had pour'd Her orisons for thee, and o'er thy head Beheld her Iris.-Thou, too, lonely lord, And desolate consort-vainly wert thou wed; The husband of a year! the father of the dead!
Of sackcloth was thy wedding garment made; Thy bridal's fruit is ashes : in the dust The fair-hair'd daughter of the isles is laid, The love of millions! How we did intrust Futurity to her! and, though it must Darken above our bones, yet fondly deem'd Our children should obey her child, and bless'd Her and her hoped-for seed, whose promise seem'd Like stars to shepherds' eyes :-'t was but a meteor deem'd.
MEDORA'S DEATH. His steps the chamber gain—his eyes behold All that his heart believed not yet foretold! He turn'd not-spoke not, sunk not-fix'd his look, And set the anxious frame that lately shook: He gazed how long we gaze despite of pain, And know-but dare not own, we gaze in vain ; In life itself, she was so still and fair, That death with gentler aspect wither'd there; And the cold flowers her colder hand contain'd, In that last gasp as tenderly were strain'd As if she scarcely felt, but feign'd a sleep, And made it almost mockery yet to weep: The long dark lashes fringed her lids of snowAnd veil'd—thought shrinks from all that lurks
Oh! o'er the eye Death most exerts his might,
ADDRESS TO THE ALHAMBRA.
PALACE of beauty! where the Moorish lord, King of the bow, the bridle, and the sword, Sat like a genie in the diamond's blaze. Oh! to have seen thee in the ancient days, When at thy morning gates the coursers stood, The “ thousand,” milk-white, Yemen's fiery blood, In pearl and ruby harness'd for the king; And through thy portals pour’d the gorgeous flood Of jewell’d Sheik and Emir hastening, Before the sky the dawning purple show'd, Their turbans at the Caliph's feet to fling. Lovely thy morn-thy evening lovelier still, When at the waking of the first blue star That trembled on the Atalaya hill, The splendours of the trumpet's voice arose, Brilliant and bold, and yet no sound of war; It summon'd all thy beauty from repose, The shaded slumber of the burning noon. Then in the slant sun all thy fountains shone, Shooting the sparkling column from the vase Of crystal cool, and falling in a haze Of rainbow hues on floors of porphyry,
And the rich bordering beds of every bloom,
Where are thy pomps, Alhambra, earthly sun,