TO THE QUEEN.

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

Than arms, or power of brains, 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-blossom shakes

Take, Madam, this poor book of song;

For tho' the faults were thick as dust