Britons! although our task is but to show The scenes and passions of fictitious woe, Think not we come this night without a part In that deep sorrow of the public heart, Which like a shade hath darkened every place, And moistened with a tear the manliest face! The bell is scarcely hushed in Windsor’s piles, That tolled a requiem from the solemn aisles, For her, the royal flower, low laid in dust, That was your fairest hope, your fondest trust. Unconscious of the doom, we dreamt, alas! That e’en these walls, ere many months should pass, Which but return sad accents for her now, Perhaps had witnessed her benignant brow, Cheered by the voice you would have raised on high, In bursts of British love and loyalty. But, Britain! now thy chief, thy people mourn, And Claremont’s home of love is left forlorn:— There, where the happiest of the happy dwelt, The ’scutcheon glooms, and royalty hath felt A wound that every bosom feels its own,— The blessing of a father’s heart o’erthrown— The most beloved and most devoted bride Torn from an agonizèd husband’s side, Who “long as Memory holds her seat” shall view That speechless, more than spoken last adieu, When the fixed eye long looked connubial faith, And beamed affection in the trance of death. Sad was the pomp that yesternight beheld, As with the mourner’s heart the anthem swelled; While torch succeeding torch illumed each high And bannered arch of England’s chivalry. The rich plumed canopy, the gorgeous pall, The sacred march, and sable-vested wall,— These were not rites of inexpressive show, But hallowed as the types of real woe! Daughter of England! for a nation’s sighs. A nation’s heart went with thine obsequies!— And oft shall time revert a look of grief On thine existence, beautiful and brief. Fair spirit! send thy blessing from above On realms where thou art canonised by love! Give to a father’s, husband’s bleeding mind, The peace that angels lend to human kind, To us who in thy loved remembrance feel A sorrowing, but a soul-ennobling zeal— A loyalty that touches all the best And loftiest principles of England’s breast! Still may thy name speak concord from the tomb— Still in the Muse’s breath thy memory bloom! They shall describe thy life—thy form portray; But all the love that mourns thee swept away, ’Tis not in language or expressive arts To paint—yet feel it, Britons in your hearts! LINES ON THE GRAVE OF A SUICIDE.