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 This laurel greener from the brows 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; |