That lift our thoughts beyond the lapse of years,
To frame some new existence in their spheres.

Oh! sleep, thou soft usurper of the breast,
That lull'st despair and sorrow into rest;
Inspir'd by thee, the fancied breeze restores
Some wretched exile to his native shores :
The destin❜d martyr lifts his raptur'd eye,
And sees an op'ning Paradise on high;
Already views yon starry realm unfurl'd,
And swells his praises in a brighter world.
Oh! yet how oft thy languid wing imparts
A balm as sweet to less impassion'd hearts!
'Tis thy delight in flowery vales to shed

Thy wreath of poppies o'er the shepherd's head; (12)
To spread a calm which princes cannot share,

And reign o'er bosoms undisturb'd by care.

Yet while each heart is mindful of repose,

Nor heeds awhile its pleasures or its woes;
One eye alone is waiting from afar

The approaching splendour of the morning-star;

One lamp is glimm'ring where the darkness lowers, The only beacon in St. Germain's towers.

'Tis Mary-she whose every thought was gay, That weeps the hours in loneliness away;

With streaming hair, with wild and troubled breast,
She slumbers not tho' Nature is at rest;

But tells with trembling hand each sacred bead,
The pledge of life, and symbol of her creed:
Yet, tho' the night beholds her drown'd in tears,
From fancied sorrows, or from maiden fears,
The morn must find her deck'd in princely pride,
The hope of nations, and the Dauphin's bride.

Oh! there are times (e'en while our hopes are crown'd,
And Wealth and Fame inclose their suppliant round)
When every boon that Fortune can bestow
Yields to some wild presentiment of woe;

Till, all our present happiness forgot,

We grasp the shadows of a darker lot.
Such is the pang that o'er her bosom steals,
While to the image of her God she kneels;

C

With grateful breast, and with uplifted eye,

She scans that form whose Godhead stoop'd to die;
Marks the frail pang, the smile sublimely meek,

That mocks the blood which trickles down his cheek; "Till, fill'd with love, her breast forgets its care,

And glows with all the fervency of pray'r.

VII.

The night hath past, and to the altar's side

The Heir of France has led his blushing bride; (13)
How chang'd that form since last the nightly gloom
Spread o'er her cheek the paleness of the tomb!
Now bright the smile from those blue eyes that gleams,
And soft the blush that o'er her forehead beams;
Hers too the grace whose native grandeur brings
The proud remembrance of a race of kings;
That does not shrink tho' far around her stand
The proud and high-born nobles of the land.

Yes! mighty princes deck her glittering train,
The virtuous Condé, and the proud Lorrain;

The mild in peace-the terrible in war-
The good Coligni, and the brave Navarre;

Each proud to add fresh splendour to the scene,
And vow allegiance to their future Queen.

Oh! then and there arose the gladdening cry,
Then glow'd the heart, and wept the patriot's eye;
Then, as her charms each ravish'd breast inspir'd,
The youthful envied, and the old admir'd;

Each haughty warrior blest the royal maid,
Nor blush'd to show the rapture he betray'd.

Heiress of France! young monarch of the North, From rocky Thurso to the silvery Forth!

For thee the peasant leaves his native plains,

For thee the minstrel breathes his softest strains; (14).

The palsied dotard leaves his fev'rish bed,
To heap his dying blessings on thy head;
Content to view thee with his glazing eye,
Then lie him down in loneliness to die..

VIII.

Here should the muse in gayest strains display
The dance by night, and tournament by day;
Or paint each scene where youth and beauty meet
To join the dance with "many-twinkling" feet;
These should she trace in Fancy's softest gleams,
But dreads the influence of their gladd'ning themes.
To other bards she leaves the pleasing task
To paint the antic revels of the mask; (15)
Let these relate how each illustrious maid,

Deck'd as some guardian goddess of the glade,
Met her young lover, crown'd with od'rous flowers,
And blushing led him to her violet bowers;

Or let them sing what monsters walk'd the earth,
Mask'd in the gay buffoonery of mirth:

Here, one by one, each bark with silken sail

Spreads its white bosom to the scented gale;
'Mid scatter'd flow'rs of every hue they flow,
With silver oars, and brightly-burnish'd prow ;-

* "Glance their many-twinkling feet.”—Gray.