Southey, in one of his fine laureate odes-the funereal song of the princess Charlotte-thus commemorates the life-like appearance of the remains of the royal victim:— "The murdered monarch, whom the grave, Revealing its long secret, gave
Again to sight, that we might spy
His comely face and waking eye;
There thrice fifty years it lay,
Exempt from natural decay,
Unclosed and bright."
THE CAPTIVE OF CARISBROKE.
STERN Winter was o'erpast, and Britain's Isle Hailed the approach of April's rainbow smile; Her flowery steps were seen on hill and vale, And breath of violets scented every gale;
The banks and meads were clothed in brighter green,
And swelling buds on hawthorn boughs were seen;
And grove and garden gaily 'gan to wear
The fresh unfolding liveries of the year,
While tuneful birds upon the merry wing
Sang choral anthems to advancing Spring;
All nature seemed to find a cheerful voice,
And in soft showers and sunshine to rejoice.
But mournful were these beams to her who sate In Carisbroke's dark towers all desolate;
For, oh! sad orphan of a royal line,
Amidst these smiling hours, what pangs were thine! Pangs that have ne'er been told; yet not the less Didst thou, poor captive! feel their bitterness.
And, in thy lonely sorrow, sigh to rest
Thy aching head upon a mother's breast;
And think of brothers, sisters, far away,
The loved companions of life's early day.
Or memory, striking sadder chords, would dwell
In anguish on thy murdered sire's farewell;
And previous scenes of fond paternal love,
Which e'en stern Cromwell's iron heart could move;
Move, but not soften, though his tears confess'd
A human feeling struggling, yet repress'd.
And could thy pleading eye have looked within
That close sealed breast, thou wouldst have seen
Stung in the foretaste, yet, with strong control,
Stifled the voice of conscience in his soul.
He who had caused his master's blood to flow,
Could send thee, hapless orphan, in thy woe,
To weep thy bitter tears in those dread towers,
Where thy loved sire had spent his weary hours
Of harsh restraint! Those dismal walls could tell
Their mournful tales to thy fond heart too well,
Of all he suffered there, each pang he bore
On thee in thought repeated o'er and o'er!
Or wildering fancy with her mournful power,
Recalled the image of a darker hour,
And brought before thee, in thy prison room,
The block, the axe, the scaffold's fatal gloom,
The sable coffin and the grisly pair
Of visored ruffians grimly waiting there.
Was not that scene in thy lone solitude,
Waking, re-acted, and in dreams renewed?
Till thou with tear-swollen eyes wouldst sink to sleep,
And from heart-rending visions wake to weep;
While sorrow's cankerworm in secret fed
On thy young cheek, and stole its tender red;
And lines of high and melancholy thought
On thy fair brow were prematurely wrought,
E'en the same touching and expressive grace
Which grief had written on thy father's face;
And thine eyes brighten'd with the fatal ray,
Which speaks the silent progress of decay.
Thou wert 'midst ruthless traitors left alone,
Remote from all who loved thee-hapless one!
All, save that tender boy* condemned to bear
In all thy griefs a brother's equal share :
Doomed, like thyself, in life's fresh morn to know
All a true Stuart's heritage of woe.
To whom thy spirit clave as death drew nigh,
And felt its bitterest pang to burst that tie,
And leave him, when thy mournful eyes must close,
A helpless captive 'midst unpitying foes-
E'en those who slew thy father, and essayed
Thee to detain in bonds, young royal maid!
But strove in vain-thy spirit felt the call
To happier worlds, and burst its mortal thrall,
* Henry, duke of Gloucester.
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