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To sudden sunburst? where the hunter's cot
Looks down on rivers, and the distant hills
Climb to the firmament, yet marry not
Their purple to the orange-blaze, that fills
O'er-arching heav'n with pomp,
And peace, and power!

ODE ON THE MARRIAGE OF VICTORIA

THE FIRST.

QUEEN of our Hearts! true marriage
Is made of solid bread;

Not so, that Many-Childed Plague

Which curseth board and bed:

The ghastly league of woe with crime,
To which starved men are driven,
Though marriage call'd by law-made saints,
Hath other names in heav'n.

Lady! may all the blessings

Which thou would'st give to all

Who call thee queen, or God their lord,
On thee, thrice blessèd, fall!

If 'tis thy wish that every pair
Should live in love for ever,

May God return thee good for good,
And love desert thee never!

But want and crime, Victoria,
Law-wedded in this land,
Are curses, million-multiplied,
That frown on every hand;

And thou wilt wake, with him thou lov'st,
From brief and troubled slumbers,

If law of thine deal lessening loaves
To famine's doubling numbers.

Beautiful as the cistus,

That o'er the stonechat's nest

Stoops, when the moorland clouds lie down

On evening's lap to rest,

Art thou, my Queen! the morning dews
Upon the orchard blossom,

Are not more pure than is the heart
Within thy royal bosom.

But can the Queen be happy,
If millions round her weep?
In love's elysium, while hope faints,
Can Hope's Victoria sleep?

MARRIAGE OF VICTORIA THE FIRST.

No.

Bringer of Redemption! thou,

In love's elysium sleeping,

Would'st wake, to grieve with starving men,
And worth in dungeons weeping.

The woodbine's cluster'd beauty,
That hides the brooding thrush,
And weds the wild hedgerose, when Morn
Shakes pearls from tree and bush,
All trembling like the skylark's wing,
Would dread his voice of gladness,
And hate the marriages of Spring,

If dower'd with hate and sadness.

219

THE SUN'S BIRD.

THE cloud of the rain is beneath thee. Thou

singest,

Palaced in glory; but Morn hath begun

A dark day for man, while the sunbeams thou wingest,

Bird of the Sun! Bird of the Sun!

They hear thee, but see thee not-sleepy bees hear thee,

While under sad boughs the sad rivulets run; But thou art all music! care cannot get near thee, Bird of the Sun! Bird of the Sun!

And when from Light's fields thou descendest, and

over

Thy nest the wide gloom spreads its canopy dun, How sweet will thy sleep be among the sweet clover, Bird of the Sun! Bird of the Sun!

And, there, a white network of dewdrops the fairies, To chain leaf and flower, in a frolic have spun ; While nigh thy dear home the tipp'd ear of the hare is,

Bird of the Sun! Bird of the Sun!

SCOTSMEN TO SCOTLAND,

WRITTEN FOR THE SCOTSMEN OF SHEFFIELD.

THY Men of Men shall we forget,
Old Scotland? No. Where'er we be,

All lonely, or in exile met,

We think of them and thee.

Mother of Knox! "hast thou a charm"
That gives to all thy name who bear
Thoughts which unnerve the despot's arm,
And Will, to do and dare?

Thou bad'st him build on tyrant's bones
An altar to the Lord of Lords;

Thou gav'st him power to shatter thrones,
And vanquish kings, with words.

Stern Mother of the deathless dead!

Where stands a Scot, a freeman stands,
Self-stay'd, if poor-self-clothed, self-fed,
Mind-mighty, in all lands.

No mitred pleader need thy sons,

To save the wretch whom Mercy spurns;
No classic lore thy little ones,

Who find a Bard in Burns.

Their path, though dark, they will not miss; Secure, they tread on danger's brink;

They say,

"This shall be!" and it is;

For, ere they act, they think.

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