953 P55S -km UC-NRLF B 3 S7b MbM THE LAMENT OF THE EMERALD ISLE BY CHARLES PHILLIPS, ESQ, f* Loveliness was around her as light. She saw the Youth, and loved him. Her blue eye rolled on hira in secret, and she blessed the Chief Of Morven '* Thou hast left no Son, but thy name shall live in Song : — " Narrow is thy dwelling now, thou who wert so great before." Ossta n — Songs of Sehna, LONDON PRINTED FOR WILLIAM HONE, 67, OLD BAILEY, THREE DOORS FROM tUHGATE-HIIJ,. 1817 J. ICCrwry, Printer, IlsckpHore^Court, London. 7 S% TO THE MOST DESOLATE WOMAN IN THE WORLD Cl)e princess of axaales THIS TRIBUTE OF THE SINCEREST SYMPATHY it RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED. ■•" ■ PREFACE In the following lines I have endeavoured, I am afraid feebly, to embody the universal feeling of this country, at the loss of the pure Spirit who has thus been snatched away in the midst of all a human being could inspire of hope, or feel of happiness. Had the Calamity which has so de- solated the heart of a Nation, separated for ever, even two obscure villagers, it could not have been contemplated without the liveliest interest ; and, without arrogating any peculiar claim for Royal sufferings, surely there was something in the Cha- racter of our lost Princess, for which even Re- publicanism might confess a sympathy. Her 025 Vlll PREFACE. youth — her beauty — her situation ; — the noble in- dependence of her conduct — her disinterested selection of the man she loved — the simple, un- ostentatious seclusion in which she lived — the pattern of domestic affection she displayed — her religious habits ; — but, above all, the tender and sublime filial piety which attached her to her hapless Mother under all her afflictions: these were qualities which it requires no rank to illus- trate, and betrays no servility to almost adore. It is to be hoped — should not I say, expected, by a nation of Christian feelings, that the domestic purity of her Conduct will be duly appreciated by those she has left behind. But it was enough to sicken the heart of insensibility, to find mis- creants, daring, even before her remains were cold, to revive questions which it would have been equally for the respectability of the throne, and the happiness of the people, had they never been agitated. Our lamented Princess has now left her PREFACE. IX mother a legacy to the pity and protection of the British people ; and if, contrary to every principle of British law, after being twice exculpated, she is to be a third time put upon her trial, 1 hope every husband in the Empire will feel it due to his family, rigidly to ascertain, why, after hav- ing been exiled while scarcely yet a wife, she is not permitted the repose even of her Nuptial Widowhood. Dublin, December 1st, 1817. THE LAMENT, fyc. And is she dead— and is she gone ? — And has she left me all forlorn ? — Oh ! hush'd be every other moan, 'Tis Erin's privilege to mourn ! My harp is strung to strains of sadness, My soul is wrapt in moods of madness, — I've seen my children dear in chains, — I've heard the death-shriek o'er my plains 12 My darlings' blood, Was my daily food — The blood of my murder'd brave My lullaby, Was the raven's cry — My pillow, the warrior's grave ;- I never learned the song of gladness ! 'Mid the rapine of peace — 'mid the ruin of war, She beamed on my tear-drop like Bethlehem's star : When, raised by memory's horrid spell, The buried age roll'd past me — When royal murder emptied hell, In spectral train to blast me — When he, whose woe I wept to tell, Around me pealed the thunder ; And the emerald gem of my diadem, Was dimmed by filial plunder — When bigotry toss'd the torch on high — When murder shriek'd thro' the midnight sky — 13 Her name shed music o'er me ; — When the air was sighs — when the earth was blood- When death in its ghastliness peopled the flood — Revealed, her virgin image stood — An angel of light before me ! She was the star that the darkness divided, The harp that gave melody e'en to the blast ; The dove at whose vision the waters sabsided, The violet of hope when the winter was past. Oh, how lovely arose the young flowret of May ! Oh, how pure on its leaf hung the day's infant gem ! But the sunbeam of heaven kiss'd the dew-drop away, But pale evening wept over the blossomless stem ! Sweet spirit ! the blush to that weeping eve given, Marks the flight of the angels to welcome their own; — Sweet spirit ! that sunbeam illuming all heaven, Reveals the rich glory that shadows thy throne I 14 The cloud of our incense, arising in air, But sullies the crown that encircles thy brow ! The sigh, as it bursts the full soul of despair, Only breaks the blest chorus that hallows thee now. Yet, still, if the spirit of glory can see, The lone exile it leaves in its pilgrimage here — There is one, in his wretchedness, sacred to thee, Nor unheard, is his sigh, nor unpitied, his tear. Poor Leopold — the orient day As brightly flames o'er Claremont's height And its last, loveliest, farewell ray, On Esher casts a look of light — But Esher's groves are sad at noon, Sweet Claremont's bow'rs are silent now; And veiled in clouds " the inconstant moon" That smiled upon thy nuptial vow !— 15 Weep on — let not a solace rude Profane thy hallowed solitude : — Weep on — this world's no world to thee, Thou art alone with misery : — Weep on — she cannot hear thee weep — Thy lov'd one sleeps the dreamless sleep : — Her voice is hush'd — her bosom cold — Her eye's blue lustre clouded — And, Oh God ! in the earthworm's slimy fold, Lies her youth in its loveliness shrouded ! A crown was her birth-right — an empire her dower- The throne and the isle of the free : — The will of a brave people worshipp'd her power- But royalty's sceptre — but chivalry's flower, Swayed not the heart that was shrined in the bower Of a blessed seclusion with thee ! 16 Oh ! Leopold, can wealth or state, The cumbrous nothings man calls great ? — Can Majesty's imperial sway ? Can faithless fortune's comet ray ? Recall the love that breathed on thee Its death-sigh of idolatry ? Oh weep — but were each tear a gem, And every gem a diadem, What were they, to one happy hour Of Paradise, in Claremont's bower ? — Hours of Heaven, that fling their beam Like sunshine, o'er a winter stream. But, who can blanch the stainless snows, Or paint the diamond's trembling ray ? But, who can catch the living rose, That veils the infant blush of day ? — 'Tis theirs alone — the angel art — To fancy all that fires the heart— The ardent fear — the timid zeal — That love, and love alone, can feel. 17 There is a sad, heart-soothing grief— When woe o'erflows, it weeps relief, And makes a friend of mere distress: — It bends in fancy o'er the grave — It sees the funeral poplars wave, In crowded loneliness. — It hears a voice in the whirlwind's sigh, Sees the form it loved in the speckless sky, And with bodiless visions, and fantasies rude, Peoples the airy solitude. Oh it walked with thee in Windsor's pile, As Death's pageant moved before her ; While the noblest and fairest of all the isle Waved the canopied mockery o'er her — The flowers of beauty strewed her bier, The eye of valour rained the tear, Fast as Arabia's tree : — The organ's requiem, sweet and slow, Rolled its harmonious pomp of woe O'er her, as she lay in death below, Rebuking all their pageantry, c But, by thee, unheard was the choral hymn, Unmark'd the banner'd crowd, The temple's midnight day was dim, Nor, eye, nor thought, Hadst thou for aught, But thy loved one in her shroud. Gaze, gaze thy last, poor Leopold, Her smile can bless thee never — Her cheek is pale — her young heart cold — The heart that loved thee — cold for ever. Around her virgin brow, the wreath Of nuptial bliss, for thee she wove ; And o'er that brow still lived in death, The last faint farewell look of love : — Oh ! may that look a spirit be, To charm away thy misery. 19 But lo — a wanderer, far away, Neglected and reviled — Yon exile mourns her only stay, Her own, her darling child. — Mothers of England — when, at night, Upon the bended knee, Your heart invokes a God of Light, To guard your children's infancy — Oh ! spare one pitying prayer for her, The widowed, childless, royal wanderer ! Her sire in a foreign land was laid, While glory mourn'd her brother — Her nuptial wreath just bloom'd, to fade — O'er life's sad ruin but one ray strayed — Still, still she was a mother. And, tho' a pilgrim, and alone, The heir, and outcast, of a throne, Lured from her own, her native home, The home of early life, And doomed in stranger realms to roam, A widow ! yet a wife ! Still one sweet vision every woe beguiled — Still Hope's bright angel pointed to her child. 20 Departed spirit, beam thy light, On thy poor mother's tears — Starless, and dreary, is the night, Of her declining years — See her, of every hope bereft, How desolate — how lone — All that hate her only left, And all that loved her, gone — Friend, father, mother, brother brave, Are now with thee in the silent grave. Poor wanderer ! — in thy heart's distress God pity thee ! How rayless is thy wretchedness ! How desolate thy royalty ! THE END. J. M'Creciy, Printer, Black-Horse-Court, London. RETURN TO the circulation desk of any University of California Library or to the NORTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY Bldg. 400, Richmond Field Station University of California Richmond, CA 94804-4698 ALL BOOKS MAY BE RECALLED AFTER 7 DAYS 2-month loans may be renewed by calling (510)642-6753 1-year loans may be recharged by bringing books to NRLF Renewals and recharges may be made 4 days prior to due date MAtfW*- ED BELOW 20,000 (4/94) PAMPHLET BINDER Syrocuse, N. Y. Stockton, Calif.