xl.
And this is woman's world. It matters not
Though in the trackless wilderness she dwell,
Or on the cliff where hangs the Switzer's cot,
Or in the subterranean Greenland cell,—
Her world is in the heart. Rude storms may rise,
And dark eclipse involve ambition's skies,
But dear affection's flame burns pure and well,
And therefore 'tis, with such a placid eye,
She soothes her lov'd ones' pangs, or lays her down to die.
xli.
Lo! Albion's cliffs, in glorious light that shine,
Welcome the princess of the infant West.
'Twas nobly done, thou queen of Stuart's line,
To sooth the tremours of that stranger's breast;
And when, upon thy ladies richly dight,
She, through a flood of ebon tresses bright,
Uplifts the glances of a timid guest,
What saw she there? The greeting smiles that brought,
O'er her own lofty brow, its native hues of thought.
xlii.
But what delighted awe her accents breath'd,
The gorgeous domes of ancient days to trace,
The castellated towers, with ivy wreath'd,
The proud mementos of a buried race;
