TO THE QUEEN. REVERED, beloved,-O you that hold Than arms, or power of brain, or birth, Victoria,-since your Royal grace This laurel greener from the brows And should your greatness, and the care Then-while a sweeter music wakes, Take, Madam, this poor book of song; And leave us rulers of your blood May children of our children say, "Her court was pure; her life serene; "And statesmen at her council met By shaping some august decree, POEMS. CLARIBEL. A MELODY. 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 callow throstle lispeth, The slumbrous wave outwelleth, The babbling runnel crispeth, The hollow grot replieth Where Claribel low-lieth. |