Thy pale lip, quivering with convulsive throes,
Breathed not a plaint—and settled in repose;
While bow’d thy royal head to Him whose power
Spoke in the fiat of that midnight hour,
Who from the brightest vision of a throne,
Love, glory, empire, claim’d thee for his own,
And spread such terror o’er the sea-girt coast,
As blasted Israel when her ark was lost!
“It is the will of God!”—yet, yet we hear
The words which closed thy beautiful career;