282 ON THE DEATH OF THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE.

Of sad funereal rites, nor the loud groans

And deep-felt anguish of a husband's heart,

Can move to mingle with this flood one tear :
In careless apathy, perhaps in mirth,

He wears the day. Yet is he near in blood,
very stem on which this blossom grew,

The

And at his knees she fondled in the charm

And grace spontaneous which alone belongs

To untaught infancy:-Yet O forbear!

Nor deem him hard of heart; for awful, struck

By Heaven's severest visitation, sad,

Like a scathed oak amidst the forest trees,

Lonely he stands ;—leaves bud, and shoot, and fall;

He holds no sympathy with living nature

Or time's incessant change. Then in this hour,

While pensive thought is busy with the woes

And restless change of poor humanity,

Think then, O think of him, and breathe one prayer,

From the full tide of sorrow spare one tear,

For him who does not weep!

THE WAKE OF THE KING OF SPAIN.*

ARRAYED in robes of regal state,

But stiff and cold, the monarch sate;
In gorgeous vests, his chair beside,

Stood prince and peer, the nation's pride;

And paladin and high-born dame

Their place amid the circle claim :

And wands of office lifted high,

And arms and blazoned heraldry,—

*The kings of Spain for nine days after death are placed sitting in robes of state with their attendants around them, and solemnly summoned by the proper officers to their meals and their amusements as if living.

All mute like marble statues stand,

Nor raise the eye, nor move the hand :

No voice, no sound to stir the air,

The silence of the grave is there.

The portal opens—hark, a voice! "Come forth, O king! O king, rejoice! The bowl is filled, the feast is spread, Come forth, O king!”—The king is dead. The bowl, the feast, he tastes no more,

The feast of life for him is o'er.

Again the sounding portals shake,

And speaks again the voice that spake :
"The sun is high, the sun is warm,
Forth to the field the gallants swarm,
The foaming bit the courser champs,

His hoof the turf impatient stamps ;
Light on their steeds the hunters spring:
The sun is high-Come forth, O king !”

Along these melancholy walls

In vain the voice of pleasure calls :

The horse may neigh, and bay the hound,—

He hears no more; his sleep is sound.
Retire; once more the portals close;
Leave, leave him to his dread repose.

THE BABY-HOUSE.

DEAR Agatha, I give you joy,

And much admire your pretty toy,

A mansion in itself complete

And fitted to give guests a treat;

With couch and table, chest and chair,

The bed or supper to prepare;

We almost wish to change ourselves

To fairy forms of tripping elves,
To press the velvet couch and eat
From tiny cups the sugared meat.