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
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 sun-lit 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;

"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 stil!,
Broad-based upon her people's will,
And compassed by the inviolate sea."

MARCH, 1851.

POEMS.

CLARIBEL.

A MELODY.

WHERE Claribel low-lieth
The breezes pause and die,
Letting the rose-leaves fall:
But the solemn oak-tree sigheth,
Thick-leaved, ambrosial,
With an ancient melody
Of an inward agony,
Where Claribel low-lieth.

At eve the beetle boometh
Athwart the thicket lone:
At noon the wild bee hummeth
About the mossed headstone:

At midnight the moon cometh
And looketh down alone.
Her song the lintwhite swelleth,
The clear-voiced mavis dwelleth,
The fledgling throstle lispeth,
The slumbrous wave outwelleth,
The babbling runnel crispeth,

The hollow grot replieth
Where Claribel low-lieth.