Marie-Antoinette

O gentlest of thy race!
How early do we trace
The wrath of Fate on thee!
Not only that thy head
Was hurl'd among the dead,
The virtuous, wise, and free,
O Marie-Antoinette!
Do generous souls regret
Thy sceptred destiny,
But, winning all the heart
Of mortal like Mozart,
His bride thou couldst not be.
Thou liftedst the sweet child
From slippery floor: he smiled,
Kist thee, and call'd thee wife.
Ah! could it have been so,
How free wert thou from woe,
How pure, how great, for life!
One truth is little known:
'Tis this; the highest throne
Is not the highest place
Even on the earth we tread:
Some can raise up the dead,
And some the royal race.