The axe its bloody work had done; The corpse neglected lay; This peopled world could spare not one To watch beside the clay.
The fairest work from Nature's hand That e'er on mortals shone, A sunbeam stray'd from fairy land To fade upon a throne;—
The Venus of the Tomb whose form Was destiny and death; The Siren's voice that stirr'd a storm In each melodious breath;—
Such was, what now by fate is hurl'd To rot, unwept, away. A star has vanish'd from the world; And none to miss the ray!
Stern Knox, that loneliness forlorn A harsher truth might teach To royal pomps, than priestly scorn To royal sins can preach!
No victims now that lip can make! That hand how powerless now! O God! and what a King — but take A bauble from the brow?
The world is full of life and love; The world methinks might spare From millions, one to watch above The dust of monarchs there.
And not one human eye!— yet lo What stirs the funeral pall? What sound — it is not human woe — Wails moaning through the hall?
Close by the form mankind desert One thing a vigil keeps; More near and near to that still heart It wistful, wondering creeps.
It gazes on those glazed eyes, It hearkens for a breath — It does not know that kindness dies, And love departs from death.
It fawns as fondly as before Upon that icy hand. And hears from lips, that speak no more, The voice that can command.
To that poor fool, alone on earth, No matter what had been The pomp, the fall, the guilt, the worth, The Dead was still a Queen.
With eyes that horror could not scare, It watch'd the senseless clay:— Crouch'd on the breast of Death, and there Moan'd its fond life away.
And when the bolts discordant clash'd, And human steps drew nigh, The human pity shrunk abash'd Before that faithful eye;
It seem'd to gaze with such rebuke On those who could forsake; Then turn'd to watch once more the look, And strive the sleep to wake.
They raised the pall — they touch'd the dead, A cry, and both were still'd,— Alike the soul that Hate had sped, The life that Love had kill'd.
Semiramis of England, hail! Thy crime secures thy sway: But when thine eyes shall scan the tale Those hireling scribes convey;
When thou shalt read, with late remorse, How one poor slave was found Beside thy butcher'd rival's corse, The headless and discrown'd;
Shall not thy soul foretell thine own Unloved, expiring hour, When those who kneel around the throne Shall fly the falling tower;
When thy great heart shall silent break, When thy sad eyes shall strain Through vacant space, one thing to seek One thing that loved — in vain?
Though round thy parting pangs of pride Shall priest and noble crowd; More worth the grief, that mourn'd beside Thy victim's gory shroud!
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