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b[1] The course of love ran smooth, and brightly free—
Not long such bliss to mortal could be given,
It is enough for earth, to catch one glimpse of heaven.
XX.
What though, ere yet the noonday of thy fame
Rose in its glory on thine England's eye,
The grave's deep shadows o'er thy prospect came?
Ours is that loss—and thou wert blest to die!
Thou mightst have lived to dark and evil years,
To mourn thy people changed, thy skies o'ercast;
But thy spring-morn was all undimmed by tears,
And thou wert loved and cherished to the last!
And thy young name, ne'er breathed in ruder tone,
Thus dying, thou hast left to love and grief alone.
XXI.
Daughter of Kings! from that high sphere look down,
Where still in hope, affection's thoughts may rise;
Where dimly shines to thee that mortal crown,
Which earth displayed to claim thee from the skies.
- ↑
b"The course of true love never did run smooth." Shakspeare.
