CLXIX.

Peasants bring forth in safety.--Can it be, Oh thou that wert so happy, so adored! Those who weep not for Kings shall weep for thee, And Freedom's heart, grown heavy, cease to hoard Her many griefs for _One_; for she had poured Her orisons for thee, and o'er thy head[pz] Beheld her Iris.--Thou, too, lonely Lord, And desolate Consort--vainly wert thou wed! The husband of a year! the father of the dead!