« EelmineJätka »
He lost in errors bis vain heart prefers,
ON THE DEATH OF KING GEORGE III.
Bells toll for peasants, and we heed them not:
We cannot grieve alike for youth and age.
But thee, the age-worn monarch of these realms,
Thy sun was not eclipsed in sudden night,
To spare worse pangs than ever madness proved,
0! what a rapturous change, from dark to light,
Those darkened eyes--no more obstruct the day,
As death drew near, O! did not angels stand,
Come where, beyond the portals of the grave,
Silent and sad—the Minstrel sat,
And thought on the days of yore;
Though his harp could charm no more !
The winds of heaven died away,
And the moon in the valley slept ;
And o'er its strains he wept !
In youth he had stood by the Wallace side,
And sung in King Robert's hall;
Scotland to hold in thrall.
But the Wallace wight was dead and gone,
And Robert was on his deathbed ; And dark was the ball where the Minstrel sung
Of chiefs that for Scotia bled !
But oft as the twilight stole o'er the steep,
And the woods of his native vale,
The bell had tolled the midnight hour,
Monimia sought the shade ;
Where Leontine was laid.
With soft and trembling steps the maid
Approached the drear abode ;
And dewed her lover's sod!
Cold blew the blast, the yew-tree shook,
And sighed with hollow moan ;
And faint the twilight shone.
Monimia's cheek grew deadly pale,
Dewed with the tear of sorrow,
THE DYING SOLDIER.
Day faded from the hill and wood,
Around a rayless night was spread ;
The dying and the dead.
Where echoed late the trump and drum ;
Their death-knell, all was dumb.
Here, 'midst his brave, but perished band,
Upon a midnight couch of clay,