The Venus of the Tomb[D] whose form
Was destiny and death;
The Siren's voice that stirr'd a storm
In each melodious breath;—
Such was, what now by fate is hurl'd
To rot, unwept, away.
A star has vanish'd from the world;
And none to miss the ray!
Stern Knox, that loneliness forlorn
A harsher truth might teach
To royal pomps, than priestly scorn
To royal sins can preach!
No victims now that lip can make!
That hand how powerless now!
O God! and what a King—but take
A bauble from the brow?
The world is full of life and love;
The world methinks might spare
From millions, one to watch above
The dust of monarchs there.
And not one human eye!—yet lo
What stirs the funeral pall?
What sound—it is not human woe—
Wails moaning through the hall?
Close by the form mankind desert
One thing a vigil keeps;
More near and near to that still heart
It wistful, wondering creeps.
It gazes on those glazèd eyes,
It hearkens for a breath—
It does not know that kindness dies,
And love departs from death.
It fawns as fondly as before
Upon that icy hand.
And hears from lips, that speak no more,
The voice that can command.
To that poor fool, alone on earth,
No matter what had been
The pomp, the fall, the guilt, the worth,
The Dead was still a Queen.