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 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,

66

She wrought her people lasting good;

1

VOL. I.

"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.

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 callow throstle lispeth, The slumbrous wave outwelleth, The babbling runnel crispeth, The hollow grot replieth Where Claribel low-lieth.

LILIAN.

AIRY, fairy Lilian,
Flitting, fairy Lilian,
When I ask her if she love me,
Clasps her tiny hands above me,
Laughing all she can ;
She'll not tell me if she love me,
Cruel little Lilian.

When my passion seeks Pleasance in love-sighs, She, looking through and through me Thoroughly to undo me,

Smiling, never speaks:
So innocent-arch, so cunning-simple,
From beneath her gathered wimple
Glancing with black-beaded eyes,
Till the lightning laughters dimple

The baby-roses in her cheeks;
Then away she flies.

Prithee weep, May Lilian ! Gayety without eclipse Wearieth me, May Lilian: Through my very heart it thrilleth When from crimson-threaded lips Silver-treble laughter trilleth: Prithee weep, May Lilian.

Praying all I can,

If prayers will not hush thee,
Airy Lilian,

Like a rose-leaf I will crush thee,
Fairy Lilian.