Pocahontas, and Other Poems/The Tomb of Josephine
Empress of Earth's most polish'd clime!
Whose path of splendid care
Did touch the zenith-point of hope,
The nadir of despair,—
Here doth thy wrong'd, confiding heart
Resign its tortur'd thrill,
And slumber like the peasant's dust,
All unconcern 'd and still.
Did Love yon arch of marble rear
To mark the hallow'd ground?
And bid those Doric columns spring
With clustering roses crown'd?
Say,—did it come with gifts of peace
To deck thy couch of gloom?
And like relenting Athens bless
Its guiltless martyr's tomb?
Ah! no! — the stern and callous breast
Sear'd by Ambition's flame,
No kindlings of remorse confess'd
At thy remember'd name:
Alike the Corsican abjur'd,
With harsh and ingrate tone,
The beauty and the love that pav'd
His pathway to a throne.
Fair France! — by thy indignant zeal
Were fitting honours paid,
And did thy weeping fondness sooth
The unrequited shade?
Bad'st thou yon breathing statue strive
Her faultless form to show?
But rushing on in reckless mirth,
That empire answered, — No.
Then lo! — a still small voice arose
Amid that silence drear,
Such voice as from the cradle bed
Doth charm the mother's ear;
And then, behold, two clasping hands
Were from that marble thrust,
And strange their living freshness gleam'd
Amid that sculptur'd dust;
Those hands a monument have deck'd
Where pausing pilgrims come;
That voice a filial requiem pour'd
When all the world was dumb.
- ↑ The inscription on the tomb of the Empress Josephine, erected by her children.