Where have you borne your monarch?—He who loved—
Loved you so well! Behold! the sun grows pale,
Shrouding his glory in a tearful veil;
The misty air is silent, as in dread,
And the dim sky with shadowy gloom o’erspread;
While saints and martyrs, spirits of the blest,
Look down, all weeping, from their bowers of rest.
In that dread moment, to the fatal pile
The regal victim came; and raised the while