A ROYAL REQUIEM. SHED the fast-falling tear o'er the tomb of the brave, 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, They oft' but betoken the storm that will soon Then pour the Lament o'er the tomb of the brave, For sheath'd is the sword that was bared for the right, "MORNING CHRONICLE." 1827. |