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
To one of less desert allows
This laurel greener from the brows
Of him that uttered 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 through wild March the throstle calls,
Where, all about your palace-walls,
The sunlit almond-blossom shakes-
Take, Madam, this poor book of song;
For, though 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: