Page:Felicia Hemans in The Monthly Magazine Volume 2 1826.pdf/10

 While silently around it spread, Thou feel'st the presence of the dead.

And what within is richly shrined?— A sculptured woman's form, Lovely in perfect rest reclined, As one beyond the storm: Yet not of death, but slumber, lies The solemn sweetness on those eyes.*

The folded hands, the calm pure face, The mantle's quiet flow, The gentle, yet majestic grace, Throned on the matron brow:— These, in that scene of tender gloom, With a still glory robe the tomb.

There stands an eagle, at the feet Of the fair image wrought— A kingly emblem—nor unmeet To wake yet deeper thought: She, whose high heart finds rest below, Was royal in her birth and woe.

There are pale garlands hung above Of dying scent and hue; She was a mother—in her love How sorrowfully true! Oh! hallowed long be every leaf, The record of her children's grief!

She saw their birthright's warrior-crown Of olden glory spoiled— The standard of their sires bore down— The shield's bright blazon soiled: She met the tempest meekly brave, Then turned, o'erwearied, to the grave.

She slumbered; but it came—it came, Her land's redeeming hour, With the glad shout and signal-flame, Sent on from tower to tower: Fast through the land a spirit moved— 'Twas her's, the lofty and the loved.

Then was her name a word that rung To rouse bold hearts from sleep; Her memory, as a banner flung Forth by the Baltic deep: Her grief, a bitter vial poured To sanctify th' Avenger's sword.

And the proud eagle spread again Its pinion to the sun; And the strong land shook off its chain— So was the triumph won! But woe for earth! where Sorrow's tone Still blends with Victory's!—she was gone!F. H.