TO THE QUEEN.

REVERED, beloved- O you that hold
A nobler office upon earth

Than arms, or power of brain, or birth Could give the warrior kings of old,

Victoria, since your Royal grace
To one of less desert allows

This laurel greener from the brows
Of him that utter'd nothing base;

And should your greatness, and the care
That yokes with empire, yield you time
To make demand of modern rhyme
If aught of ancient worth be there;
Then

while a sweeter music wakes, And thro' wild March the throstle calls, Where all about your palace-walls The sun-lit almond-blossoms shakes

Take, Madam, this poor book of song; For tho' the faults were thick as dust In vacant chambers, I could trust Your kindness. May you rule us long,

And leave us rulers of your blood As noble till the latest day! May children of our children say, "She wrought her people lasting good; "Her court was pure; her life serene;

God gave her peace; her land reposed; A thousand claims to reverence closed In her as Mother, Wife, and Queen;

"And statesmen at her council met
Who knew the seasons when to take
Occasion by the hand, and make
The bounds of freedom wider yet.

"By shaping some august decree,
Which kept her throne unshaken still
Broad-based upon her people's will,
And compass'd by the inviolate sea.'

MARCH, 1851.

To read those laws; an accent very low In blandishment, but a most silver flow Of subtle-paced counsel in distress, Right to the heart and brain, tho' undescried,

Winning its way with extreme gentleness Thro' all the outworks of suspicious pride; A courage to endure and to obey; A hate of gossip parlance, and of sway, Crown'd Isabel, thro' all her placid life, The queen of marriage, a most perfect wife.

III.

The mellow'd reflex of a winter moon ; A clear stream flowing with a muddy one, Till in its onward current it absorbs With swifter movement and in purer light

The vexed eddies of its wayward brother:

A leaning and upbearing parasite, Clothing the stem, which else had fallen quite,

With cluster'd flower-bells and ambrosial orbs

Of rich fruit-bunches leaning on each other ---

Shadow forth thee:-the world hath not another

(Tho' all her fairest forms are types of thee,

And thou of God in thy great charity) Of such a finish'd chasten'd purity.

MARIANA.

"Mariana in the moated grange."

Measure for Measure.

WITH blackest moss the flower-plots
Were thickly crusted, one and all :
The rusted nails fell from the knots

That held the pear to the gable-wall. The broken sheds look'd sad and strange : Unlifted was the clinking latch; Weeded and worn the ancient thatch Upon the lonely moated grange.

She only said, "My life is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"

Her tears fell with the dews at even ;

Her tears fell ere the dews were dried; She could not look on the sweet heaven, Either at morn or eventide.

II.

Low-cowering shall the Sophist sit;

Falsehood shall bare her plaited brow: Fair-fronted Truth shall droop not now With shrilling shafts of subtle wit. Nor martyr-flames, nor trenchant swords Can do away that ancient lie;

A gentler death shall Falsehood die, Shot thro' and thro' with cunning words.

III.

Weak Truth a-leaning on her crutch, Wan, wasted Truth in her utmost need, Thy kingly intellect shall feed,

Until she be an athlete bold, And weary with a finger's touch Those writhed limbs of lightning speed; Like that strange angel which of old, Until the breaking of the light, Wrestled with wandering Israel,

Past Yabbok brook the livelong night, And heaven's mazed signs stood still In the dim tract of Penuel.

MADELINE.

I.

THOU art not steep'd in golden languors, No tranced summer calm is thine, Ever varying Madeline.

Thro' light and shadow thou dost range, Sudden glances, sweet and strange, Delicious spites and darling angers, And airy forms of flitting change.

II.

Smiling, frowning, evermore,
Thou art perfect in love-lore.
Revealings deep and clear are thine
Of wealthy smiles: but who may know
Whether smile or frown be fleeter?
Whether smile or frown be sweeter,
Who may know?

Frowns perfect-sweet along the brow
Light-glooming over eyes divine,
Like little clouds sun-fringed, are thine,
Ever varying Madeline.

Thy smile and frown are not aloof
From one another,

Each to each is dearest brother;
Hues of the silken sheeny woof
Momently shot into each other.

All the mystery is thine;
Smiling, frowning, evermore,
Thou art perfect in love-lore,
Ever varying Madeline.