And though she be no less a queen- with purples hung above, The pageant of a court behind, the royal kin around, And woven gold to catch her looks turned maidenly to ground, Yet may the bride-veil hide from her a little of that state, While loving hopes, for retinues, about her sweetness wait. She vows to love who vowed to rule-(the chosen at her side) Let none say, God preserve the queen! — but, rather, Bless the bride! None blow the trump, none bend the knee, none violate the dream Wherein no monarch but a wife, she to herself may seem. Or if ye say, Preserve the queen! - oh, breathe it inward low She is a woman, and beloved! —and 'tis enough but so. Count it enough, thou noble prince, who tak'st her by the hand, And claimest for thy lady-love, our lady of the land! And since, Prince Albert, men have called thy spirit high and rare, And true to truth and brave for truth, as some at Augsburg were, We charge thee by thy lofty thoughts, and by thy poet-mind Which not by glory and degree takes measure of man kind, Esteem that wedded hand less dear for sceptre than for ring, And hold her uncrowned womanhood to be the royal thing. And now, upon our queen's last vow, what blessings shall we pray? None, straitened to a shallow crown, will suit our lips to-day. Behold, they must be free as love-they must be broad as free, Even to the borders of heaven's light and earth's humanity. Long live she! - send up loyal shouts—and true hearts pray between "The blessings happy peasants have, be thine, O crownèd queen!" TO THE MEMORY OF PRINCE ALBERT LORD TENNYSON (From "Idylls of the King." Dedication) PRINCE ALBERT died in 1861. He had been an ideal Prince Consort, greatly aiding the queen by advice and sympathy. His voice was always for peace and for such legislation as would better the lot of the poor. These to His Memory since he held them dear, Some image of himself — I dedicate, I dedicate, I consecrate with tears These Idylls. And indeed He seems to me Scarce other than my own ideal knight, "Who reverenced his conscience as his king; Whose glory was, redressing human wrong; Who spake no slander, no, nor listen'd to it; Who loved one only and who clave to her Her over all whose realms to their last isle, Commingled with the gloom of imminent war, The shadow of His loss moved like eclipse, Darkening the world. We have lost him he is gone: We know him now: all narrow jealousies Are silent; and we see him as he moved, How modest, kindly, all-accomplish'd, wise, With what sublime suppression of himself, And in what limits, and how tenderly; Not swaying to this faction or to that; Not making his high place the lawless perch Of wing'd ambitions, nor a vantage-ground For pleasure; but thro' all this tract of years Wearing the white flower of a blameless life, Before a thousand peering littlenesses, In that fierce light which beats upon a throne, And blackens every blot: for where is he, Who dares foreshadow for an only son A lovelier life, a more unstain'd, than his ? Or how should England dreaming of his sons Hope more for these than some inheritance Of such a life, a heart, a mind as thine, Thou noble Father of her Kings to be, Break not, O woman's heart, but still endure; May all love, His love, unseen but felt, o'ershadow Thee, TO THE QUEEN LORD TENNYSON (Dedication of Her Laureate's Poems) QUEEN VICTORIA's reign of sixty-four years is the longest in English history. It was rendered glorious by the maintenance of peace with European powers, by the development of vast colonial possessions, by wise laws intended to promote the people's rights, and by the furtherance of education and popular welfare. The Queen's ministers were men who had the confidence of the nation and they were guided by the nation's will as expressed in the House of Commons. In all their beneficent work, they had the sympathetic coöperation of Victoria. 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 If aught of ancient worth be there; Then while a sweeter music wakes, And thro' wild March the throstle calls, The sun-lit almond-blossom shakes |