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 glowed, Till Glory's self is twilight, and displays A melancholy halo scarce allowed 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[531] of the heart--the heart whose sweat was gore. CLXVII. Hark! forth from the abyss a voice proceeds,[532] 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. 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 belovéd 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. CLXIX. 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[pz] 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[533]: in the dust The fair-haired Daughter of the Isles is laid, The love of millions! How we did entrust Futurity to her! and, though it must Darken above our bones, yet fondly deemed Our children should obey her child, and blessed Her and her hoped-for seed, whose promise seemed Like stars to shepherd's eyes:--'twas but a meteor beamed.[534] CLXXI.