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"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."-SHERER'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.

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 sculptur'd 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 kingly emblem--nor unmeet

To wake yet deeper thought: She whose high heart finds rest below, Was royal in her birth and wo.

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 soiled: 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 thro' 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 wo for earth, where sorrow's tone

Still blends with victory's!-She was gone !*

* Originally published in the Monthly Magazine.

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