Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/257

Rh  Each clustering virtue round thy throne That glads the simple hind; For sometimes hath a queenly crown Been as the Upas-tree, To the pure bosom's healthful plants, It was not thus with thee.

Yet pangs were thine, that speechless woe Which patriot virtue feels, When o'er the country of its love, The oppressor's footstep steals, Yes, he whose eagle-pinion sought The subject world to shame, Did stoop to wound thy noble breast, And basely mar his fame.

But tearless from Helena's rock His tortur'd spirit fled, Hence, vengeful thoughts! ye may not dwell So near the sacred dead: Rest, Prussia's Queen! a nation's grief Flows forth in fountains free, A nation's love, thy couch doth guard, Sleep on, 'tis well with thee.

 

! Grief! 'tis thy symbol, so mute and drear, Yet it hath a tale for the listening ear, Of the nurse's care, and the curtain'd bed, And the baffled healer's cautious tread, 