LOUIS PHILIPPE AT THE HOSPITIUM, ST. GOTHARD. Wrestling for life, and smiling as in scorn At all the tempests mid the glaciers born; To seek a humbler home, where haply burn'd, In brighter worlds, gazes in mercy down. On earth's poor children, while, 'neath human frown, And mourn their lone, deserted path below. When the night-shades are thickest, lo! the dawn Reddens the east; and soft the breaking morn Shines out. When o'er the slumbering, ice-bound earth, The chillest, keenest, wintry winds have birth, 83 THE YOUNG PRINCESS. BRIGHT babe, I look on thee, A laughing, happy child, Like wood-birds' warbling wild : Sweet buds of richest bloom Are scatter'd round thee now, Hath dash'd thy cup of joy. Long may'st thou keep thy youth's soft glow, No load of earthly care Weighs thy soft eyelids down; No dreams hast thou or rev'ries fair Of coronet or crown. Thy sceptre is the tall, green rush That grows where sparkling streamlets gush. Thou hast thy diadem, Pressing thy shining curls, But not of costly gold or gem, Or pale and gleamy pearls: Thy wreath is woven of bright flowers, Thy gems are drops of May-dew showers. When childhood's years are past, How beauteous thou wilt be! How high thy destiny! Earth's great ones thou wilt dwell among, The theme of many a flattering tongue. |