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 loved ones' pangs, or lays her down to die.
XLI.
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.
The gorgeous domes of ancient days to trace,
The castellated towers, with ivy wreathed,
The proud mementos of a buried race;
Or 'neath some mighty minster's solemn pile,
Dim arch, and fretted roof, and long-drawn aisle,
How rush'd the heart's blood wildly to her face,
When, from the living organ's thunder-chime,
The full Te Deum burst in melody sublime.
XLIII.
The glittering train, the courtier's flattering tone,
Or by her lord, through fair ancestral halls,
Led on, to claim their treasures as her own,
