Then, wherefore, Albion! terror-struck, subdued,
Sitt'st thou, thy state foregone, thy banner furl'd?
What dire infliction shakes that fortitude,
Which propt the falling fortunes of the world?--
Hush! hark! portentous, like a withering spell
From lips unblest--strange sounds mine ear appal;
Now the dread omens more distinctly swell--
That thrilling shriek from Claremont's royal hall,
The death-note peal'd from yon terrific bell,
The deepening gale with lamentation swoln--
These, Albion! these, too eloquently tell,
That from her radiant sphere, thy brightest star has fall'n!

And art thou gone?--graced vision of an hour!
Daughter of Monarchs! gem of England's crown!
Thou loveliest lily! fair imperial flower!
In beauty's vernal bloom to dust gone down;
Gone when, dispers'd each inauspicious cloud,
In blissful sunshine 'gan thy hopes to glow:
From pain's fierce grasp, no refuge but the shroud,
Destin'd a Mother's pangs, but not her joys, to know.

Lost excellence! what harp shall hymn thy worth,
Nor wrong the theme? conspicuously in thee,
Beyond the blind pre-eminence of birth,
Shone Nature in her own regality!
Coerced, thy Spirit smiled, sedate in pride,
Fixt as the pine, while circling storms contend;
But, when in Life's serener duties tried,
How sweetly did its gentle essence blend,