THE CONTRAST. [Written under Windsor Terrace, the day after the Funeral of George the Third.] I SAW him last on this Terrace proud, Walking in health and gladness, Begirt with his Court; and in all the crowd Not a single look of sadness. Bright was the sun, and the leaves were green, Blithely the birds were singing, The cymbal replied to the tambourine, And the bells were merrily ringing. I have stood with the crowd beside his bier, But every eye was dim with a tear, And the silence by sobs was broken. I have heard the earth on his coffin pour To the muffled drum's deep rolling, While the minute-gun with its solemn roar, The time since he walk'd in his glory thus, But to him a night unvaried. We have fought the fight;-from his lofty throne The foe of our land we have tumbled; And it gladden'd each eye, save his alone, For whom that foe we humbled. A daughter belov'd-a Queen-a son- For his eyes were seal'd, and his mind was dark, And he sat in his age's lateness, Like a vision throned, as a solemn mark Of the frailty of human greatness. His silver beard o'er a bosom spread, Unvex'd by life's commotion, Like a yearly-lengthening snow-drift shed On the calm of a frozen ocean. O'er him oblivion's waters boom'd, As the stream of time kept flowing; And we only heard of our King when doom'd To know that his strength was going. At intervals thus the waves disgorge, By weakness rent asunder, A part of the wreck of the Royal George, For the people's pity and wonder. THE BARD'S SONG TO HIS DAUGHTER. O DAUGHTER dear, my darling child, Prop of my mortal pilgrimage, Thou who hast care and pain beguiled, And wreathed with Spring my wintry age, Through thee a second prospect opes Of life, when but to live is glee, And jocund joys, and youthful hopes, Come thronging to my heart through thee. Backward thou lead'st me to the bowers Where love and youth their transports gave;` While forward still thou strewest flowers, And bidst me live beyond the grave. For still my blood in thee shall flow, Perhaps to warm a distant line, Thy face my lineaments shall show, Yes, Daughter, when this tongue is muteThis heart is dust-these eyes are closed, And thou art singing to thy lute Some stanza by thy sire composed, To friends around thou mayst impart A thought of him who wrote the lays, And from the grave my form shall start, Embodied forth to fancy's gaze. Then to their memories will throng Scenes shared with him who lies in earth, The cheerful page, the lively song, The woodland walk, or festive mirth; |