HER ROYAL HIGHNESS THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE.
Artist: Sir Thomas Lawrence - Engraved by: Wm. Fry
HE tears of a nation were shed for her doom,
The wail of a people rose over her tomb.
From palace and cottage one funeral cry,
Asked—So gay and so lovely, oh, how could she die?
Scarce a year since her bridal had gladdened the land,
The wreath on her forehead, the ring on her hand:
When forth went the summons, and down came the blow;
And the young hope of England in dust was laid low.
Alas, for her husband, though others may weep,
Ah, what is their sorrow, to what he must keep!
A dream for his midnight, a shade for his day,
For which time has no comfort, and hope has no stay.
Love may be forgotten, when false or when vain;
And pride may recover its calmness again.
But where is the solace for tears that are shed
O’er the hope of a life-time, the loved and the dead.
Oh! folly of deeming aught earthly can last,
Life never knew sorrow whose reign has not past.
Oh! mockery of mockeries, to trust human heart,
Whose grief is a shadow, to come and depart:
For he, the heart-broken, hath joy at his side,
And again at the altar he stands with his bride.
Oh! dark shades of Claremont, find brightness and bloom,
For the widower desolate returns a bridegroom.
"It is said, that Leopold and his young bride intend visiting this country, when they will spend a fortnight at Claremont."—Morning Paper.