CLXVII.

   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.

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 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.

CLXIX.

   Peasants bring forth in safety.—­Can it be,
   O 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!

CLXX.

   Of sackcloth was thy wedding garment made: 
   Thy bridal’s fruit is ashes; 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 star to shepherd’s eyes; ’twas but a meteor beamed.

CLXXI.

   Woe unto us, not her; for she sleeps well: 
   The fickle reek of popular breath, the tongue
   Of hollow counsel, the false oracle,
   Which from the birth of monarchy hath rung
   Its knell in princely ears, till the o’erstrung
   Nations have armed in madness, the strange fate
   Which tumbles mightiest sovereigns, and hath flung
   Against their blind omnipotence a weight
Within the opposing scale, which crushes soon or late, —

CLXXII.

   These might have been her destiny; but no,
   Our hearts deny it:  and so young, so fair,
   Good without effort, great without a foe;
   But now a bride and mother—­and now there!