Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 2.djvu/495

CANTO IV.] CLXVIII.

Scion of Chiefs and Monarchs, where art thou?

Fond Hope of many nations, art thou dead?

Could not the Grave forget thee, and lay low

Some less majestic, less belovéd head?

In the sad midnight, while thy heart still bled,

The mother of a moment, o'er thy boy,

Death hushed that pang for ever: with thee fled

The present happiness and promised joy

Which filled the Imperial Isles so full it seemed to cloy.

CLXIX.

Peasants bring forth in safety.—Can it be,

Oh thou that wert so happy, so adored!

Those who weep not for Kings shall weep for thee,

And Freedom's heart, grown heavy, cease to hoard

Her many griefs for ; for she had poured

Her orisons for thee, and o'er thy head

Beheld her Iris.—Thou, too, lonely Lord,

And desolate Consort—vainly wert thou wed!

The husband of a year! the father of the dead!