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(The rights of translation and reproduction are reserved.)

TO THE QUEEN.

PLEVERED, 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 calla

Where all about your palace-walls The sun-lit almond-blossom 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.

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