Zinzendorff and Other Poems/The Grave of the Queen of Prussia
THE GRAVE OF THE QUEEN OF PRUSSIA.
"In the garden of Charlottenburgh, I came suddenly among trees, upon a fair white Doric temple. I should have deemed it a mere adornment of the grounds, a spot sacred to silence, or to the soft-breathed song, but the cypress and willow declared it a habitation of the dead. Upon a sarcophagus of white marble, lay a sheet, and the outline of a human form, was plainly visible beneath its folds. It was reverently turned back, and displayed the statue of the Queen of Prussia. It is said to be a perfect resemblance,—not as in death,—but when she lived, to bless and to be blessed. She seems scarcely to sleep; the mind and heart are on her sweet lips. Here the king often comes and passes long hours alone; here too, he brings her children, to offer garlands at her grave."—Notes during a Ramble in Germany.
Who slumbereth 'neath yon Doric fane,
Within that garden's shade?
Her brow upon its pillow white
In careless languor laid?
While fragrant summer's laden gale
And fall of murmuring stream,
With Nature's holiest hush, conspire
To lull the lingering dream.
But wherefore, do those clasping hands
Repose so still and meek?
Nor breath disturb the tress that lies
Thus lightly on her cheek?
And wherefore, on those parted lips
Doth that rich music sleep
Which mov'd Affection's bounding pulse
To rapture strong and deep?
Ah!—lift not thus the drapery's fold!
I see what death has wrought,
Who proudly to his bridal-couch
This royal victim brought;
Yet spar'd her tender form to rend
From this embowering shade,
And where she most had joy'd to roam,
Her last long mansion made.
And here, the Father of his realm
With lonely step doth steal,
And take that sorrow to his heart,
Which lowliest mourners feel,
Here too, his princely offspring bring
Affection's woven flowers,
And keep the mother's memory fresh,
Who charm'd their cradle-hours.
Farewell, thou beautiful and blest,.
Whose sceptred hand did bind
Each clustering virtue round thy throne
That glads the simple hind;
For sometimes hath a queenly crown
Been as the Upas-tree,
To the pure bosom's healthful plants,
It was not thus with thee.
Yet pangs were thine, that speechless woe
Which patriot virtue feels,
When o'er the country of its love,
The oppressor's footstep steals,
Yes, he whose eagle-pinion sought
The subject world to shame,
Did stoop to wound thy noble breast,
And basely mar his fame.
But tearless from Helena's rock
His tortur'd spirit fled,
Hence, vengeful thoughts! ye may not dwell
So near the sacred dead:
Rest, Prussia's Queen! a nation's grief
Flows forth in fountains free,
A nation's love, thy couch doth guard,
Sleep on, 'tis well with thee.