THE QUEEN OF PRUSSIA'S TOMB. In sweet pride upon that insult keen She smiled; then drooping mute and broken-hearted, To the cold comfort of the gave departed. It stands where northern willows weep, Soft shadows o'er its marble sweep, While silently around it spread, Thou feel'st the presence of the dead. MILMAN. And what within is richly shrined ? Yet not of death, but slumber, lies The solemn sweetness on those eyes. The folded hands, the calm, pure face, The mantle's quiet flow, The gentle, yet majestic grace, Throned on the matron brow; These, in that scene of tender gloom, With a still glory robe the tomb. There stands an eagle, at the feet There are pale garlands hung above, Of dying scent and hue ;— She was a mother-in her love How sorrowfully true! Oh! hallow'd long be every leaf, The record of her children's grief! She saw their birthright's warrior-crown Of olden glory spoil'd, The standard of their sires borne down, The shield's bright blazon soiled: She met the tempest meekly brave, Then turn'd, o'erwearied, to the grave. She slumber'd; but it came-it came, With the glad shout, and signal-flame, Fast through the realm a spirit moved'Twas hers, the lofty and the loved. Then was her name a note that rung And the crown'd eagle spread again His pinion to the sun; And the strong land shook off its chain So was the triumph won! But wo for earth, where sorrow's tone *Originally published in the Monthly Magazine. * |