To sudden sunburst? where the hunter's cot ODE ON THE MARRIAGE OF VICTORIA THE FIRST. QUEEN of our Hearts! true marriage Not so, that Many-Childed Plague Which curseth board and bed: The ghastly league of woe with crime, Lady! may all the blessings Which thou would'st give to all Who call thee queen, or God their lord, If 'tis thy wish that every pair May God return thee good for good, But want and crime, Victoria, And thou wilt wake, with him thou lov'st, If law of thine deal lessening loaves 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 Are not more pure than is the heart But can the Queen be happy, MARRIAGE OF VICTORIA THE FIRST. No. Bringer of Redemption! thou, In love's elysium sleeping, Would'st wake, to grieve with starving men, The woodbine's cluster'd beauty, 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, All lonely, or in exile met, We think of them and thee. Mother of Knox! "hast thou a charm" Thou bad'st him build on tyrant's bones Thou gav'st him power to shatter thrones, Stern Mother of the deathless dead! Where stands a Scot, a freeman stands, No mitred pleader need thy sons, To save the wretch whom Mercy spurns; 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. |