Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 2.djvu/496

452 CLXX.

Of sackcloth was thy wedding garment made;

Thy bridal's fruit is ashes: in the dust

The fair-haired Daughter of the Isles is laid,

The love of millions! How we did entrust

Futurity to her! and, though it must

Darken above our bones, yet fondly deemed

Our children should obey her child, and blessed

Her and her hoped-for seed, whose promise seemed

Like stars to shepherd's eyes:—'twas but a meteor beamed.

CLXXI.

Woe unto us—not her—for she sleeps well:

The fickle reek of popular breath, the tongue

Of hollow counsel, the false oracle,

Which from the birth of Monarchy hath rung