Say! did prophetic light
Illume her darkened sight,
Painting the future island-queen,
Like the fabled bird, all hearts surprising,
Bright from blood-stained ashes rising,
Strong, energic, bold, serene?
Ah no! the scroll of time
Is sealed; and hope sublime
Rests but on those far heights, which mortals may not climb.
The dying prayer with trembling fervor speeds
For that false monarch, by whose will she bleeds:
For him, who listening on that fatal morn,
Hears her death-signal o'er the distant lawn
From the deep cannon speaking,
Then springs to mirth, and winds his bugle horn,
And riots, while her blood is reeking:
For him she prays, in seraph tone,
"Oh! be his sins forgiven,
Who raised me to an earthly throne,
And sends me now, from prison lone,
To be a saint in Heaven."
Tower, Oct. 20, 1840.
