All that ideal beauty ever blessed The mind with in its most unearthly mood,

When each conception was a heavenly guest

A ray of immortality-and stood Starlike, around, until they gathered to a god!

And if it be Prometheus stole from Heaven

The fire which we endure, it was repaid By him to whom the energy was given Which this poetic marble hath arrayed With an eternal glory-which, if made By human hands, is not of human thought;

And Time himself hath hallowed it, nor laid

One ringlet in the dust-nor hath it caught

A tinge of years, but breathes the flame with which 'twas wrought.

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 discrowned,

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 thy heart still bled,

The mother of a moment, o'er thy boy, Death hushed that pang for ever: with thee fled

The present happiness and promised joy

Which filled the imperial isles so full it seemed 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 griefs for One; for she had poured

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!