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THE

QUEEN OF PRUSSIA'S TOMB.

“ This tomb is in the garden of Charlottenburgh, near Berlin. It was not without surprise that I came suddenly, among trees, upon a fair white Doric temple. I might, and should have deemed it a mere adornment of the grounds, but the cypress and the willow declare it a habitation of the dead. Upon a sarcophagus of white marble lay a sheet, and the outline of the human form was plainly visible beneath its folds. The person with me reverently turned it back, and displayed the statue of his Queen. It is a portrait-statue recumbent, said to be a perfect resemblance—not as in death, but when she lived to bless and be blessed. Nothing can be more calm and kind than the expression of her features. The hands are folded on the bosom; the limbs are sufficiently crossed to show the repose of life. -Here the King brings her children annually, to offer garlands at her grave. These hang in withered mournfulness above this living image of their departed mother." Sherber's Notes and Reflections during a Ramble in Germany.

In sweet pride upon that insult keen
She smiled; then drooping mute and broken-hearted,
To the cold comfort of the grave departed. - Milman.

It stands where northern willows weep,

A temple fair and lone ;
Soft shadows o'er its marble sweep,

From cypress-branches thrown ;
While silently around it spread,
Thou feel'st the presence of the dead.

And what within is richly shrined?

A sculptured woman's form,
Lovely in perfect rest reclined,

As one beyond the storm:
Yet not of death, but slumber, lies
The solemn sweetness on those eyes.

The folded hands, the calm pure face,

The mantle's quiet flow,
The gentle, yet majestic grace,

Throned on the matron brow;
These, in that scene of tender gloom,
With a still glory robe the tomb.

There stands an eagle, at the feet

Of the fair image wrought; A kindly emblem-nor unmeet

To wake yet deeper thought:
She whose high heart finds rest below,
Was royal in her birth and woe.
There are pale garlands hung above,

Of dying scent and hue ;-
She was a mother-in her love

How sorrowfully true!
Oh! hallow'd long be every leaf,
The record of her children's grief !

She saw their birthright's warrior crown

Of olden glory spoil'd, The standard of their sires borne down,

The shield's bright blazon soil'd: She met the tempest meekly brave, Then turn'd, o'erwearied, to the grave.

She slumber'd; but it came - it came,

Her land's redeeming hour,
With the glad shout, and signal-flame,

Sent on from tower to tower ! Fast through the realm a spirit moved — 'Twas hers, the lofty and the loved.

Then was her name a note that rung

To rouse bold hearts from sleep, Her memory, as a banner flung

Forth by the Baltic deep; Her grief, a bitter vial pour'd To sanctify th' avenger's sword.

And the crown'd eagle spread again

His pinion to the sun; And the strong land shook off its chain

So was the triumph won ! But woe for earth, where sorrow's tone Still blends with victory's-She was gone'

THE MEMORIAL PILLAR.

On the road-side between Penrith and Appleby, stands a small pillar, with this inscription :-“This pillar was erected in the year 1656, by Ann, Countess Dowager of Pembroke, for a memorial of her last parting, in this place, with her good and pious mother, Margaret, Countess Dowager of Cumberland, on the 2d April, 1616."

-See Notes to the “Pleasures of Memory."

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Hast thou, through Eden's wild-wood vales, pursued
Each mountain-scene, magnificently rude,
Nor with attention's lifted eye, revered
That modest stone, by pious Pembroke rear’d,
Which still records, beyond the pencil's power,
The silent sorrows of a parting hour?

Rogers.

Mother and child! whose blending tears

Have sanctified the place,
Where, to the love of many years

Was given one last embrace;
Oh! ye have shrined a spell of power,
Deep in your record of that hour!

A spell to waken solemn thought,

A still, small under-tone,
That calls back days of childhood, fraught

With many a treasure gone;
And smites, perchance, the hidden source,
Though long untroubled-of remorse.

For who, that gazes on the stone

Which marks your parting spot, Who, but a mother's love hath known

The one love changing not ? Alas ! and haply learn'd its worth First with the sound of “ Earth to earth ?”

But thou, high-hearted daughter! thou,

O'er whose bright, honour'd head,
Blessings and tears of holiest flow,

Ev'n here were fondly shed,
Thou from the passion of thy grief,
In its full burst, couldst draw relief.

For oh! though painful be th’ excess,

The might wherewith it swells, In nature's fount no bitterness

Of nature's mingling, dwells; And thou hadst not, by wrong or pride, Poison'd the free and healthful tide.

But didst thou meet the face no more,

Which thy young heart first knew?
And all- was all in this world o'er,

With ties thus close and true?
It was !-On earth no other eye
Could give thee back thine infancy.

No other voice could pierce the maze

Where, deep within thy breast,
The sounds and dreams of other days,

With memory lay at rest ;
No other smile to thee could bring
A gladd’ning, like the breath of spring.

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