Each clustering virtue round thy throne
That glads the simple hind;
For sometimes hath a queenly crown
Been as the Upas-tree,
To the pure bosom's healthful plants,
It was not thus with thee.
Yet pangs were thine, that speechless woe
Which patriot virtue feels,
When o'er the country of its love,
The oppressor's footstep steals,
Yes, he whose eagle-pinion sought
The subject world to shame,
Did stoop to wound thy noble breast,
And basely mar his fame.
But tearless from Helena's rock
His tortur'd spirit fled,
Hence, vengeful thoughts! ye may not dwell
So near the sacred dead:
Rest, Prussia's Queen! a nation's grief
Flows forth in fountains free,
A nation's love, thy couch doth guard,
Sleep on, 'tis well with thee.
THE MUFFLED KNOCKER.
Grief! Grief! 'tis thy symbol, so mute and drear,
Yet it hath a tale for the listening ear,
Of the nurse's care, and the curtain'd bed,
And the baffled healer's cautious tread,
