APOLLO

CLXIV.

But where is he, the Pilgrim of my song,

The being who upheld it through the past?
Methinks he cometh late and tarries long.
He is no more these breathings are his last;
His wanderings done, his visions ebbing fast,
And he himself as nothing :-if he was

Aught but a phantasy, and could be class'd

With forms which live and suffer let that pass

His shadow fades away into Destruction's mass,

CLXV.

Which gathers shadow, substance, life, and all

That we inherit in its mortal shroud,

And spreads the dim and universal pall

Through which all things grow phantoms; and the cloud Between us sinks, and all which ever glow'd,

Till Glory's self is twilight, and displays

A melancholy halo scarce allow'd

To hover on the verge of darkness; rays

Sadder than saddest night, for they distract the gaze,

CLXVI.

And send us prying into the abyss,

To gather what we shall be when the frame
Shall be resolved to something less than this
Its wretched essence; and to dream of fame,
And wipe the dust from off the idle name
We never more shall hear,but never more,
Oh, happier thought! can we be made the same:

It is enough in sooth that once we bore

These fardels of the heart-the heart whose sweat was gore.

CLXVII.

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.

CLXVIII.

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 thy 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.

CLXIX.

Peasants bring forth in safety. Can it be,

O 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 griefs 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!

CLXX.

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 shepherd's eyes :-'t was but a meteor beam'd.

CLXXI.

Woe unto us, not her; for she sleeps well :
The fickle reek of popular breath, the tongue
Of hollow counsel, the false oracle,

Which from the birth of monarchy hath rung
Its knell in princely ears, till the o'erstung
Nations have arm'd in madness, the strange fate
Which tumbles mightiest sovereigns, and hath flung
Against their blind omnipotence a weight

Within the opposing scale, which crushes soon or late,—

CLXXII.

These might have been her destiny; but no,
Our hearts deny it and so young, so fair,
Good without effort, great without a foe;

But now a bride and mother-and now there!

How many ties did that stern moment tear!
From thy Sire's to his humblest subject's breast

Is link'd the electric chain of that despair,

Whose shock was as an earthquake's, and opprest

The land which loved thee so that none could love thee best.