Poems Sigourney 1827/Caroline Matilda, to Christian the Seventh of Denmark
CAROLINE MATILDA, TO CHRISTIAN THE SEVENTH OF DENMARK.
From gloomy Zell, where shades usurp the day,
Where hopeless grief in secret pines away,
To Denmark's distant clime these lays I send,
To seek the husband, not to find the friend.—
—How hard my fate! although to power allied,
A monarch's daughter, and a monarch's bride,
Torn from those joys that strew'd my path with bloom,
And sternly coffin'd in a living tomb.—
——Oh! by the memory of that love which bore
My early youth from Albion's sacred shore,
By that first ardour guiltless and divine,
Which moved to leave a parent's arms for thine,
By all the hopes that lured my trusting mind,
By all thy vows, if vows thy soul can bind,
Bend to my woes!—but ah, how vain the plea
That summons pity or remorse from thee.—
—Cold as the icy girdle of thy shores,
Deaf as the storm that o'er thy mountains pours,
I see thee wield the sceptre, scourge and chain,
And rule despotic o'er a trembling train.—
—Unfading traces of thy cruel sway
Glare in my soul and fright mild sleep away,—
Thy victim's throng,—I mark the ghastly train,
Their straining eye-balls start with bloodshot pain,
The brave Struensee!—say,—what crime had he
To kindle hatred or revenge in thee?—
He mounts the scaffold,— dark with curdled gore;
He falls,—he bleeds,—his bosom heaves no more;
And I,—alas!—but stay thou fleeting line,
Why is Struensee's image link'd with mine?—
Think not that guilt this artless bond has wove
Nor blot my friendship with the name of love.—
But me, sad victim of thy jealous strife,
Rent in my youth from all the joys of life,
My last retreat a mightier foe invades,
And darkly dooms me to impervious shades,
From my blanch'd cheek the color fades away,
Mysterious bands my buoyant footsteps stay;
While Spring's young flowers that erst my path did strew,
Unnoticed wither in their fragrant dew,
Uncheer'd I view their graceful beauties wave
And start to gather what may deck my grave.—
—Unfeeling consort!—shroud my life with gloom,
Scorn, hate, condemn, and curse me in the tomb,
Wreak all thy malice on my wretched name,
But spare my infant,—spare thy daughter's fame,
Spare the fond babe who foster'd in my breast,
Smiles at my tears, or sinks in balmy rest,
Marks not the anguish on my brow that preys,
Nor shares the grief that blasts her mother's days.