Thy mien, for traces of responsive thought;
Oh! thou wert spared the pang, that would have thrill’d
Thine inmost heart, when death that anxious bosom still’d.
Thy loved ones fell around thee. Manhood’s prime,
Youth with its glory—in its fulness, age—
All, at the gates of their eternal clime
Lay down, and closed their mortal pilgrimage;
The land wore ashes for its perish’d flowers,
The grave’s imperial harvest. Thou meanwhile
Didst walk unconscious through thy royal towers,