The Grave of the Queen of Prussia

Who slumbereth 'neath yon Doric fane,Within that garden's shade?Her brow upon its pillow whiteIn careless languor laid?

While fragrant summer's laden galeAnd fall of murmuring stream,With Nature's holiest hush, conspireTo lull the lingering dream.

But wherefore, do those clasping handsRepose so still and meek?Nor breath disturb the tress that liesThus lightly on her cheek?And wherefore, on those parted lipsDoth that rich music sleepWhich mov'd Affection's bounding pulseTo rapture strong and deep?

Ah!—lift not thus the drapery's fold!I see what death has wrought,Who proudly to his bridal-couchThis royal victim brought;Yet spar'd her tender form to rendFrom this embowering shade,And where she most had joy'd to roam,Her last long mansion made.

And here, the Father of his realmWith lonely step doth steal,And take that sorrow to his heart,Which lowliest mourners feel,Here too, his princely offspring bringAffection's woven flowers,And keep the mother's memory fresh,Who charm'd their cradle-hours.

Farewell, thou beautiful and blest,.Whose sceptred hand did bind

Each clustering virtue round thy throneThat glads the simple hind;For sometimes hath a queenly crownBeen as the Upas-tree,To the pure bosom's healthful plants,It was not thus with thee.

Yet pangs were thine, that speechless woeWhich patriot virtue feels,When o'er the country of its love,The oppressor's footstep steals,Yes, he whose eagle-pinion soughtThe subject world to shame,Did stoop to wound thy noble breast,And basely mar his fame.

But tearless from Helena's rockHis tortur'd spirit fled,Hence, vengeful thoughts! ye may not dwellSo near the sacred dead:Rest, Prussia's Queen! a nation's griefFlows forth in fountains free,A nation's love, thy couch doth guard,Sleep on, 'tis well with thee.