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Revered, beloved,—0 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;

l)L. I. 1

"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 still,
Broad-based upon her people's will,

And compassed by the inviolate sea."

March, 1851.

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