At last have passed the blanks and dreary spaces
And chilling hours of the white windy day!
My soul set free descends to happier places,
Where golden-winged dreams, a bright array,
Wait for me, — glimpses of sweet smiling faces,
And chords of light that round my pillow play.
Oh welcome, welcome, gladsome hours of night-time
When fancy loosed exerts her wondrous spell,
A joy to me, a marvel, a delight-time,
A rainbow-coloured realm I love right well,
My region of reality, my bright time

Yet if a prayer could hasten destiny,
Were it not well in her bright hour to die —
The world at peace, or held in righteous fear! —
Man's pride, and strength, — her England's matchless spear?

She should have died hereafter! no, not now,
Not thus have made our cup with tears o'erflow.
The holy cause had triumph'd, — England's car
Came, rich with trophies of her mightiest war;
Monarchs were in her train; above her van
Blazed the deliver'd cross, the ark of man;
And she stood forth, first, fairest stood, to hail

The bier has left the hall, — has pass'd the court, —
Has enter'd, slow and dim, the Chapel's porte;
Silence is now for sound; for lustre, gloom;
Dim, in long, moveless lines, gleam lance and plume;
The flag is furl'd, the sabre in its sheath,
All is the hush'd magnificence of death.
Yet pale and partial flashes from the moon,
Toiling through mist-wreaths now, are downwards thrown,
Edging with silver, like a tempest-cloud,
The Chapel's gloomy arch, the thick-group'd crowd,
That stand with upturn'd eyes, and shapes like stone,

Then — comes the burst, the vision, broad awake
To see, what, thought on , makes the reason shake.
Mountains! where are ye! nay, thou grave! to hide
Our glance from all the dazzling, grand, untried!
A pang, — a moment — and we've burst the pall
Where all o'erwhelms; impress'd immortal , all!
How shall we melt in homage, as move by
The regal people of eternity!
Deep shuddering, as we think, how oft, how near,
Viewless, — they cross'd us in their high career: —
Kings of the elements! that now, embrow'd
With majesty, expand from fire and cloud;

We know the moment comes, that comes the last —
When all is merged in one wild word, — the past!
And all thenceforth is new ; a mighty scene
Of strange, bright, wonderful, that hath not been .
We've climb'd life's weary hill; the early plain,
Track'd as it was by many a step of pain,
Seen from that lofty brow, is seen — a span!
Beside, behind us, rush the host of man;
Before us, all is precipice; the eye
Strains but through depth on depth, — infinity!
On rush the host, like waves, like armies mown

Death, thou art terrible! 't is not the sting
Of the mere sense that makes thy suffering;
'T is not the pang, the thirst, the midnight groan;
Though all their host do homage to thy throne;
Thy terrors live in thy dark mystery,
All crowded in the one drear thought — we die!
We see the dying struggle, — all thus far
Is plain; up springs at once the mighty bar,
Gloomy as night; no twilight upper ray
Helps out the image of its further day.
And is this all; — the worm, the hideous sleep
That makes the very flesh by instinct creep.

Morn came in clouds; the tempest's heavy swell
Stoop'd ominous; it bore no birthday peal!
Egypt! when Heaven's high wrath thy heart assail'd,
And o'er its wrath that heart of stone prevail'd,
Where smote the final plague, the conquering woe?
'T was in the sword that laid thy first-born low!
Guilt was on England, and the blow was given
On England's heart, — in mercy be it, Heaven!

That morn the MIGHTY CITY silence kept;
Grief was upon her, and her spirit wept.
'T was no dissembled woe; the sudden stroke,

The sigh, but not the sorrow pass'd; for there
Were tremblings for another sufferer.
Yet in the palace all seem'd quickly calm,
No hurrying taper on the darkness swam,
No echo on the gusty air was borne,
Now chiller with the coming of the morn.
Dimness and silence all, but where the gloom
Hung fainter round the ray from one high room,
That seem'd a room of slumber; deep the fold
Through which the struggling light in crimson roll'd.

If slumber, 't was soon past! a woman's cry
Was heard within! 't was pain, 't was agony!

Spirits who sit in glory! if ye brook
To look below, 't is on such hours ye look.
The round of fate was sweeping; woe or joy
To millions hung on that Imperial boy;
Earth's furthest bound, earth's final age might feel
This moment's impulse of the mighty wheel.
If angels sorrow, deathless eyes were wan
That midnight for the blighted hopes of man.

There lies posterity! that babe belong'd
To times still coming, when our forms had throng'd
The populous grave. Of all the myriad eyes
Once fix'd to see his star of empire rise,

'T was night; but there were thoughts in England's breast
Too wild, too waking for its hour of rest;
The strong anxieties of hope and fear,
That must be joy or woe ere morn appear.
Man loves the throne! — 't is not the glare of power;
Flatterers may fawn before it, dastards cower,
The free-soul'd feel the homage that they feign:
That morn might England hail a Sovereign!
But, round the couch where England's daughter lies
Are hovering all the heart's high sympathies.
And thousands, tens of thousands that had ne'er