ELEGIACAL POEMS.

ODE

ON THE LAMENTED DEATH

OF

THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE OF WALES AND

SAXE COBOURG.

Τὰ μὲν κατ' οἴκους ἐφ' ἑστίας ἄχη
Τάδ' ἐστὶ, καὶ τῶνδ ̓ ὑπερβατώτερα

Τὸ πᾶν δ ̓ ἀφ ̓ Ἑλλάδος αἶας συνορμένοις

Πένθεια τλησικάρδιος

Δόμων ἑκάστου πρέπει.ÆSCHYL. Agamem.

Now all was quiet and serene,

Hope's morning star on earth was seen,
Its light our bosoms cheer'd :

Then, then, the hurricane arose,

The dreadful tempest of our woes,

And nought but gloom appear'd.

The festal song is o'er

The voice of mirth no more

Is heard throughout the land :

With quivering lips and pale,

The

young

and old bewail

The Almighty's dread command!

Grim death! oh what a blow thou gavest us here!
The thought is ev'n too bitter for a tear;
It spreads a gloom that never will depart,
A settled thunder-cloud around the heart.

And she is nothingness, who late
With joy, and hope, and love elate,
A fairy vision seem'd!

She realized those pleasures known
To few, to none who wear a crown,
Nor ev'n of sorrow dream'd.

But who can paint that dreadful grief
That asks not, wishes not relief?
The fierce, unutterable anguish,

That shuddering pity must conceal :
It gnaws within her widow'd consort's breast,
(Ah! happy once, with smiling pleasures blest!)
And will not through exhaustion languish-
Oh! who would this reveal?

Was it for this that Hymen join'd their hands,
Amid a people's shouts, in rosy bands,

That when with loyal hopes all hearts were gay
His lovely bride should thus be torn away?
We hoped to hear the merry bells:

Alas! they're changed to funeral knells;

Heard ye the solemn sound?

Again it tolls-the bell profound.

gone

Would it were fancy! but she's
The truest, dearest, loveliest one
That e'er a nation's wishes bless'd
That e'er a husband's love possess'd;
Friend to the poor, the fatherless,

Friend to all virtue in distress!

But wherefore grieve we so
There's selfishness in woe.

?

Angels of love, with gratulations high,
Welcome their sister-spirit to the sky:
O ever-living bride! all beauteous sprite!
With them thou dwell'st in everlasting light.
Not hers the glare of royalty-

The pride, or pomp of place;
But mild, domestic charity,

And every winning grace.

Yet Death has dimm'd the lustre of her eyes; In lifeless loveliness his victim lies;

Britannia, frantic, clasps her favourite's urn; Wit, Virtue, Beauty, for their darling mourn. But through the royal house,

No loud laments arise:

Silence that loathes repose

There stalks with tearful eyes.

Ne'er may our querulous complaints intrude On the lone mourner's sacred solitude: