A diadem of snow; his eye is dim;
Around him Heaven a solemn cloud hath spread—
The past, the future, are a dream to him!
Yet, in the darkness of his fate, alone[60]
He dwells on earth, while thou in life’s full pride art gone!
X.
The Chastener’s hand is on us—we may weep,
But not repine—for many a storm hath pass’d,
And, pillow’d on her own majestic deep,
Hath England slept, unshaken by the blast!