The Sun is set, the Stars are shining,
But all their loveliest beams are clouded;
And Grief her Cypress wreath is twining,
To deck the bier where bliss lies shrouded.
For there beneath the coffin lid,
An Empire's fondest hopes are hid,
The Bridal pomp, and garlands sweet,
Are veil'd in Pall, and winding-sheet;
The spell is burst !—the charm is sever'd
Like Mountain-pine by lightning shiver'd:
The Island crown has lost a gem,
Torn from its regal diadem,
And the lonely bud on its Parent bough,
Shall never again in beauty blow!
A Kingdom's Heiress yields her breath,
On earth her radiant course is ended;
Her seraph form is pale in death,
To the deep and dreary grave descended;
And there a People's tears are shed
O'er the sufferer's last and lowly bed,
And there unearthly tongues are singing,
Unearthly hands her knell are ringing.
-Where the sainted Bride is sleeping,
Sister Angels watch are keeping,
Airy Spirits hovering nigh,
Waft her Requiem's melody.
The Spirits' Dirge.
Peaceful and still is the sleep of the dead,
When they rest from the sorrows that circle them here;
And soft the repose of the Sepulchre's bed,
Where the Angels of Innocence watch round its bier. Then rest thee, fair Princess !-all tranquilly sleeping,
Though sceptre and sway from thy lineage are riven; Thy memory on earth shall be hallow'd with weeping,
Thy brows shall be bound with the garlands of Heaven.
Farewell,-sweetest blossom of Albion's renown!
Though sad are the tears that a kingdom weeps o'er thee; Yet the stars of the sky form the gems of thy crown,
And the pearl gates of Paradise open before thee.
Then Peace to thee, Fair-one !-so tranquilly sleeping,
All soft be the slumber that pillows thy rest;
The Land of thy love now embalms thee with weeping,
And Angels enthrone thee in realms of the blest!
For the defects of the following Monody, the author of these Memoirs is alone accountable. He is well aware that a critical eye may discover many, and the only praise which he can take to himself is, in having failed in an attempt in which complete success is so difficult to be obtained.
WHEN the fond heart, to misery long a prey,
Finds its last cherish'd wishes die away,
Feels that its slender hopes are all destroyed,
How dark then seems the solitary void!
How poor! how drear the bosom of the land,
Where death has plac'd his desolating hand;
When the bright orb, whose light our path hath cheer'd,
In sudden gloominess hath disappeared,
No more to shine!-Oh, that can never be !-
The sun may gild again the dark blue sea;
The moon may beam once more above her cloud;
But She, whose form lies cold within its shroud,
Whose look was loveliness, whose soul was truth,
Cropp'd in the summer-day of smiling youth,
Can never more arise, her ray to shed,
And burst the cloud her loss has round us spread !—
A loss, which all with aching hearts must feel,
Whose wishes centre in their country's weal.
We mourn like those, of every hope forlorn,
Whose night of sorrow never knows a morn ;
And dwell in painful retrospection oft,
On one, so kind, so lovely, and so soft.
Oh! what avail they, all the gifts of mind,
That rose so far superior to her kind;
The flow of eloquence, the burst of wit,
From lips, where love enamour'd joy'd to sit;
The smile of gladness, and the open brow;
The heart of goodness-what avail they now?
Ah! what avail the days of gentleness,
The friend's embrace, the parent's fond caress,
The giddy whirl of splendor, the acclaim
Of people happy in their country's fame!
Rul'd by unerring laws, supreme o'er all,
Kingdoms, like kings, successive rise and fall.
Earth boasts not bliss, without its share of woe,
And grief e'en settles on a monarch's brow.
Sweet shines the rose-bud to the gazer's view,
And sweet the snowdrop with its emerald hue;
Bright in the genial beam their beauties shine,
And close their foliage in the day's decline:
But, ere to-morrow's sun has tinged the sky,
By storms defaced, the lovely flow'rets lie.
So shone the fairest Rose of England's pride,
A Daughter duteous, and a happy Bride.-
In sweet seclusion pass'd her virtuous days,
In full enjoyment of a nation's praise.
The time approach'd, fraught with a mother's bliss,
Bringing the rapture of the parent's kiss-
Infuriate came the dreadful Spoiler on,
Nor spared the mother, nor the infant son;
In one dread hour, a nation's hopes were lost,
A husband's solace and a father's boast.
Her every action, all her worth below, Give but a double poignance to our woe;
Serve but to tell the joys we might have known,
Had Heaven but spar'd her to adorn a throne.
But yet-oh, yet!-whilst in our bosom dwells
One tender wish towards that which here excels,
One fond regret for worth, surpassing far
Earth's brightest children-England's fallen star!
Here let us pay the tribute to her dust,
And ease the heart of sorrow, ere it burst.-
Oh, she was good-Death never yet hath borne
So pure a spirit from the land forlorn ;
His iron sceptre never yet hath press'd
On form so fair, and lull'd it into rest;
Oh, never watch'd he yet such eyes' decay
As those, whose anguish wept their sight away;
Oh, never darted on the wings of air,
So sweet a form as late was gliding there!
But she is gone!-Death ever takes the best
From earthly trouble to eternal rest;
And we are left without a prospect more
To see such seraph light upon our shore!
And thou, sad Native of a distant realm,
Say, does this flood of woe thy soul o'erwhelm;
Dost thou, with tearful eye, and folded arms,
Beside her stand, and watch her fading charms;
Or dost thou sit and brood o'er thy distress,
In all the agony of hopelessness?—
Awake-arouse thee from that stupor deep,
Thou canst not burst the bonds of that dark sleep;
Thou canst not call again the soul to earth,
Which sunk o'erpower'd by that untimely birth!
Calm, calm thy aching bosom-she has flown
To realms where happiness is found alone;
She is, with higher beings, purer forms,
Above the world-its troubles and its storms!—
Great is thy cause for sorrow-and thy heart
Must sicken thus to lose its dearer part;
But, thou art firm, and thou may'st bear it yet,
Tho' oft thy brow be sad-thine eye-lid wet.
The time will come-when, bless'd in realms above,
Thou'lt meet the object of thy fervent love.
Till then, resign'd-in humble faith repose,
And find in virtue's path-a balsam for thy woes!
Amongst the many political questions, which were agitated on the demise of the Princess Charlotte, one of the most important was, the incompatibility of the Duke of York, as next in succession to the crown, holding his situation as Commander-in-Chief; but, there are some persons whose politics are tinctured with so much rancour, that they will strive to extract from the most melancholy events, topics for the indulgence of party spleen. Of this kind are all those writers, who have recently employed themselves in trying to excite needless anxiety in the nation, about the succession to the Throne. Fortunately, this is a subject on which the mind of every sensible man is so thoroughly satisfied, by the state of the Royal Family, and by the provisions of the statute and common law of the kingdom, that no attempt to agitate the public mind upon it can be successful. It has, therefore, become necessary for the party politicians, to fix upon some other topic. The Duke of York, and his office of Commanderin-Chief, are now brought into play. It has been attempted to show, that the office of Commanderin-Chief is, according to the principles of the
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