The Queen'S Death

This Dagger my sceptre, and Persecution my crown!'

King Henry IV.

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Her Majesty _died by the dagger of Persecution_. Her Persecutors, unable to conceal the fact that _she has been hurried to her Grave_, hypocritically whine over "the wounds themselves have made," and, like the flying felon, who, to elude his pursuers, cries "Stop thief!" they huddle up their knives, and charge her friends and advisers with being her destroyers! "_Kissing the gashes that bloodily do yawn upon their faces_," they call her defenders and protectors "a faction" and charge this _faction_ with being her assassins! Execrable villains! Was it this "faction" brought her from Germany? Was she _married_ by this "faction?" Were her _conjugal rights denied her_ by this "faction?" Was she deserted and _licensed_ to her "_inclinations_" by this "faction?" Was she _spied upon_ by this "faction?" Was _her character impeached_ by this "faction:" Was _the late King's friendship_ for her at that period caused by a "faction?" Was _her child_ torn from her by a "faction?" Was _she tricked out of the country_ by a "faction:" Was her name _omitted upon her daughter's coffin_ by a "faction?" Was the"honourable" _Milan Commission_ issued by the "faction?" Was the horde of miscreants who vomited forth their _disgusting and obscene perjuries_ against her--were these collected by this "faction?" Was her _Trial_ in the House of Lords, amid the gibes and jests, and scoffs and sneers, and the taunt of _Ferocity_--was this the act of "faction?" Was the spiritual and temporal _refusal _ to place her name in _the Liturgy_ the act of this "faction?" Was the _refusal to crown her_, or to assign her a place in the ceremonial of her husband's Coronation, or to permit her presence to witness it, or _her expulsion from the doors_, or the rancorous _insults_ she sustained that day, were these from the "faction?" NO! When the _bribe_ and the _threat_ availed not, and she came to England in the courage of her noble heart, and the full majesty of innocence--when the enraged host gathered for her desolation hurtled from the high places as a whirlwind, the People, seeing that in her person the Principles of Humanity and the Constitution were invaded., reflecting on _her_ sufferings and their own, and aroused by a sense of duty and of danger, united for her preservation. Animated by the Justice of their cause, and _headed by_ the Press, they read a moral lesson to her deadly persecutors, at which they turned pale, and from which they shrunk back in dismay! The archers shot her sorely, but the People saved her from swift destruction. This offence was never to be forgiven. They who had elevated the Queen above the craft of _Priestianity_ and the cruelty of _Court Selfishness_, were more exposed to attack than her whom they had preserved. Her enemies rallied to assail her friends. If we seek the names of the assailants from among the Members of the Bridge-Street Gang, a formidable list might be selected. There we should find the slanderous Blacow, and at the head of the muster-roil might be placed Slop. This "_wretch_" and his Gang, commenced _Prosecutions_ against the humblest of the Queen's friends, while the _hireling_ presses foamed into a settled _Persecution_ against her and them. The Slop-pail frothed up its malignant spume; official poison _Croked_ forth from the Courier; the organ of the _Fashionable World_ discharged his filthy ribaldry; and the assaults of a band of _obscene wretches_, Sunday after Sunday, were defended and aided by the prostituted pen of Slop. In violation of the sanctity which even savages attach to _the chambers of death_, some of the heartless fiends who dogged her through life, and hurried her "_to the house appointed far all living_," pursue their remorseless warfare beyond the grave. Others (following the example of their abettors, who, in mockery of death itself, put the signs of mourning upon the outsides of their houses, while they chuckle with joy within), _now_ that they have consummated their crime, make a merit of not preying upon her dead body! Her frame, too weak to bear their blows upon her heart, surrendered its mighty spirit into the hands of Him who gave it, and her murderers exclaim, "Well! she is _gone--at last_; let us bury all animosities _with her!_" BRUTAL TAUNT! They hoisted the black flag of unrelenting and deadly hate against her as long as she lived--they have exterminated her, and they hang out a white one, crying Peace! Peace! where there is no Peace! They have floated themselves to the favour of their employers in her blood, and the guilty villains, retreating to their den to celebrate their horrible triumph, pray us not to disturb their secret orgies with our clamours!

It is said, that only a few hours before she ceased to breathe, she spoke of the modes her savage adversaries had successfully put in practice, of separating worthy people from her society: one of which was, _to deter them from visiting her, by propagating the most atrocious calumnies against her, and them_. Never was human being attacked with more malignant ferocity by _the Furies of the Press_, than this noble-minded and innocent lady--never will they perpetrate a fouler Murder! _Instruments of cruelty are in their habitations. O, my soul! come not thou into their secret!_

Her dying declaration, "THEY HAVE DESTROYED ME!" will be remembered long after her destroyers. Her blood is on their heads. They allowed her no peace on earth. _Now--she hears not the voice of the oppressor--she is where the wicked cease from troubling, and where the weary are at rest_.

In fixedness of courage immovable, in clearness of intellect unrivalled, she shone on earth as the polar-star in the firmament of her sex, and in her utmost need, they circled round her as the sun of their glory. Her wrongs and her fate are indelibly registered in our annals. Honest historians of after-times will narrate them truly, and unpensioned Bards embalm her to posterity.

The Queen's dying request was, to lie in the same tomb with her child--sad experience taught her to anticipate a refusal from her relentless enemies!

"Let her be buried in the King's highway, For on her heart they trod, the while she liv'd; And, buried once, why not upon her head?"--

Men and Women of England! have ye not a little Grave, Her _Spirit_ was with the People while she lived--her body belongs to them now that she is no more.

The Author of the The Political House Jack Built.

** When this article was written, the Queen lay unburied.

THE DEATH-LIGHT OF CAROLINE'S HALL,

The death-lights glimmer in Caroline's hall, Where strangers have spread the funeral pall; Relations by blood from her have fled, And other hands have pillow'd her head-- Vet a halo round her temples plays, Brighter than earthly crowns can raise! When her heart-strings broke, no husband was there, With a bursting breast, and a holy prayer-- Her Royal Spouse was _on the sea_, In glittering pomp and pageantry; With streamers pointing to Erin's shore, Where wassail, and wine, and wild uproar, And the noisy mirth of a motley band, Were to drown the sighs of a sorrowing land! The prospect was bright on her Bridal Day, And English hearts were light and gay; Alas!'twas the gleam of a wintry sky, When dark clouds come, and the storm is nigh.

The eye to bless, and the hand to save, Were not the gifts that the altar gave! She never knew the sweet control That wins, that guards the cherish'd soul; But met the keen repulsive glance From furious eye-balls turn'd askance!-- A _licensed outcast_, bade to roam, No husband's bed--no friend--no home-- The treacherous _Spy_ in ambush placed, Our British name defiled, disgraced!

At last kind Heaven upon her smiled-- The raptured Mother clasp'd her Child; Maternal love beam'd from her eye; The tear-dew'd cheek _for once_ was dry. But devilish hate could ne'er endure A joy so sweet, a bliss so pure; And the cherub-smile that cheer'd her life, Was rudely torn from the widow'd wife!

But who shall tell--or who shall believe, That malice could deeper wrongs conceive? O, learn the deed from the daughter's bier-- In Judgment bid her _Tomb_ appear; On the dark vault let the day-beam shine; Behold the broken lincage-line!

The Record rests on the sculptured stone-- _Robb'd of the Mother's name_ alone. The surpliced Priest made no appeal-- His Earthly Masters check'd his zeal-- From those who bent their heads to Heaven, To pray that mortals be forgiven; No kind behest for her was sent, No Priestly hand to her was lent; But when, at length, she lifeless fell, Rose the _hollow_ sound of _their_ passing bell! Well fed, well paid, to blast her name, Swarms of Italian Monsters came; And English Monsters, fouler still, Obey'd their Masters' deadly will! The fiends have chased her day by day, Her _Sabbath_ death-bed was their prey!-- These are not men!--they never press'd The life-streams from a human breast; Nor are they woman-born--but thrown From some vile source to man unknown! She struggled long--she nobly rose Triumphant o'er her rancorous foes; Bravely she stood the lengthen'd strife For honest fame--more dear than life-- But ah! the nerve, too finely strung, Was wrench'd, was torn, was rudely wrung-- She won the prize--_that_ strength was given, Then burst from earth to kinder Heaven!