Richmond Enquirer

THE LAMENT OF THE EMERALD ISLE.

The following passages are from a poem written by Charles Phillips, Esq. the eminent Irish barrister.

It has a short dedication, 'To the most desolate woman in the world—the PRINCESS OF WALES.'

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 veil'd in clouds the inconstant moon
That smil'd upon thy nuptial vow

Weep on!—Let not a solace rude
Profane thy hallow'd solitude—
Weep on!—This world's no world for 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 earth-worm's slimy fold
Lies her youth in its loveliness shrouded!

A crown was her birth-right—an empire her dow'r
The throne and the isle of the free—
The will of a brave people worshipp'd her pow'r—
But royalty's sceptre—but chivalry's flow'r
Sway'd not the heart that was shrin'd in the bow'r
Of a blessed seclusion with thee!

There is a sad heart-soothing
Grief
When woe o'erflows, it creeps relief
And makes a friend of more delicate
It lends to Fancy o'er the grave
It sees the funeral poplar wave,
In mournful turret—
It hears a voice in the whirlwind's sigh,
Sees the form it lov'd in the speckless sky,
And with bodiless visions and fantasies rude
Peoples its airy solitude,
As it walk'd with thee in Windsor's pile
As Granta's pageant mov'd before her,
While the noblest and fairest of all the isle
Who govern'd the canopy'd mockery o'er her—
The flowers strew'd her bier,
The eye of valour rain'd the tear
Vast as Arabia's tree—
The organ's requiem, sweet and slow,
Roll'd its deep monotone voice of woe
O'er her, as she lay in death below,
Rebuking all their pageantry.

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 lov'd one in her shroud
Gaze, gaze thy last, poor Leopold!
Her sainted form bless thee never—
Her cheek is pale—her young heart cold—
The heart that lov'd thee—cold forever!
Around her virgin brow the wreath
Of nuptial bliss for thee she wove,
And o'er that brow outliv'd in death
The last faint farewell look of love

May spirit lurk a spirit,
Touching away thy malady,
But to!—a phantom, or any,
Neglected amid ruin't
You excite unknown heart only stay,
Her own, her dazzled child—
Mothers of England!—when at night,
Upon the bridal bed,
Your heart invoke a God of light—
To guard your children's slumber—
Oh! spare one pitying pray'r for her,
The widow'd, childless, Royal Wanderer!
Her sire in a foreign land was laid,
While glory mourn'd her brother
In mutual wreaths that 's to shade
O'er life's sad ruin but one ray remain'd—
Still, still she was a mother;
And, thus pilgrim and alone,
The heir, and outcast, of a throne,
Lured from her own her native home,
The home of early life,
And doom'd in stranger realms to roam,
A widow'd vot'ry vile
Still one sweet vision ev'ry eve beguiled-
Still hope's bright angel pointed to her child.
Departed spirit! Let thy light
On thy poor mother's tears—
Sit there, and dry, in the night
Of her declining years:-
See her, of ev'ry hope bereft,
How desolate-how lone-
All that have known her left.
And all that lov'd her gone-
Friend, Father, mother, Brother brave,
Are now with thee in the silent grave,
Poor wanderer! in thy heart's ruins
Gay pity there I
How rayless is thy wretchedness!
How desolate thy royalty!