CARLOTTA.

Poor, lone Carlotta, Mexico's mad Queen,

Babbling of him, amid thy vacant halls,

Whose ears have long been heedless of thy calls;

Sad monument of pomp that once hath been,

Thy staring eyes mark ever the same scene

Of levelled muskets, and a corpse which falls,

Dabbled in blood, beneath the city walls —

Though twenty years have rolled their tides between.

Not of this world thy vengeance! They have passed,

Traitor and victim, to the shadow-land.

Not of this world thy joy; but, when at last

Reason returns in Paradise, its hand

Shall join the shattered links of thought again,

Save those that form this interval of pain.