A ROYAL REQUIEM.

SHED the fast-falling tear o'er the tomb of the brave,
Mourn, mourn for the offspring of Kings!

The sword of the valiant is sheath'd in the grave,

The son of the mighty lies low as the slave,

And the warm heart of honour is cold as the wave,

And still as the ice-fetter'd springs.

Earth's splendours and pomps, like the bright skies of June,

Too often are dimm'd by a cloud;

Like the mild seeming halo, at Night's brilliant noon,
That, diadem-like, gems the orb of the Moon,

They oft' but betoken the storm that will soon
That orb and it's brilliancy shroud.

Then pour the Lament o'er the tomb of the brave,
Let us mourn for the offspring of Kings;

For sheath'd is the sword that was bared for the right,
Death-cold is the heart that beat warmly and light,
And the Spirit has fled to a mansion more bright,
And shaken Earth's stains from it's wings.

"MORNING CHRONICLE." 1827.

LONDON:

MARCHANT, PRINTER, INGRAM-COURT.