Yet, memories sad thou hast of things that were;—
The pang of revolution, and the cry
That rent the old foundations of thy throne,
And sent a guiltless monarch forth to die;
And of the iron yoke that crushed thy pride,
When he the sceptre snatched, who at Helena died.
Thou hast a dread, perchance, of things to be,
I cannot say, indeed, that this is so,
But well I know, I was afraid in thee,
As if some mine beneath my feet did glow;
For thou didst aim, though with an erring might,
Shafts at his royal head, who rules thy realm aright.
Thou hast a longing for the things that tend
Unto thy hurt, and lovest all too well
The war-shout and the long-embattled line,
And pomp and fane, that martial triumphs swell,
Although thy life-blood cast its crimson stain,
Profuse o'er Russia's snows, and Egypt's desert plain.
Would it were better with thee! It would cheer
Me in my home, amid my household care,
To think that all was prosperous in thy clime,
All sound at heart, that to the eye is fair;
But now the fresh breeze curls the ocean blue,
And rocks the expecting boat. Delightful France, adieu!
Boulogne, Saturday, Jan. 16, 1841.
