Classic Poem

IN THE KING'S CHAMBER AT BERLIN , 1812.

Thy day of agony is o'er!
Thou 'rt angel, and shalt weep no more:
In fortune's last extremity,
Princess, 'twas well for thee to die.
Death calms the wretched, frees the slave;
Can insult follow to the grave?
The tyrant now may taunt and scorn,
Thy spirit can no more be torn.
Oh, for the hour a Prussian's steel
Shall teach his callous heart to feel!
Thy cheek is still before me — pale
As the last leaf on Autumn's gale;
Then lit with one, swift, burning tinge,
As o'er it, from thine eyes' dark fringe,
Fell, drop by drop, the tears of pain,
At some new galling of thy chain;
Some slighting, sullen courtesy
Of him who could not honour thee.
And this the end of birth and bloom;
Tears, terrors, exile, and the tomb! —
And there is One, who, hour by hour,
Has wept upon thee, broken flower!
Pierced to the soul with every sting
That Fate could point against a King.
The Man had one more misery
To meet — and met it, losing thee.
Image of beauty, breathing stone,
Here shrined so lovely, and so lone;
Comes he not here from restless sleep
To weep, as hearts alone can weep!
Thy spell is on me too: — my eye
Is caught, fix'd, fill'd, unconscious why;
'Tis not thy more than regal brow;
Thy more than beauty; more than woe;
'Tis the deep grace, that seems to wind
O'er all, — the relique of thy mind!
But the dark heart that dug thy grave
Shall die a recreant and a slave:
Not where his routed legions lie;
He must not die, as brave men die!
But weary, wither'd, lost, — his name
Earth's scorn, the common mark for shame;
From fame, hope, empire, mankind driven,
As sure as there's a Power in Heaven,
That sin's not made to be forgiven!