A BIRTHDAY TRIBUTE
TO
HER ROYAL HIGHNESS THE PRINCESS VICTORIA.
When has the day the loveliest of its hours?
It is the hour when morning breaks into day,
When dew-drops like the yet unfolded flowers,
And sunshine seems like hope upon its way.
Then soars the lark amid the azure, singing
A seraph's song, that is of heaven, not earth;
Then comes the wind, a fragrant wanderer, bringing
The breath of vales where violets have birth.
Which of the seasons in the year is fairest?
That when the spring first blushes into bloom;
There is the beauty, earliest and rarest,
When the world warms with colour and perfume.
Then are the meadows filled with pleasant voices,
Earth one bright promise what it is to be;
Then the green forest in its depths rejoices,
Flowers in the grass, and buds upon the tree.
Then the red rose reveals her future glory,
Breaking the green moss with one crimson trace;
So dawns the white—while old historic story
Tells now they wreath for England's royal race.
If thus so fair the spring-time and the morning,
But in the world of leaf and bud; how fair,
With all their early loveliness adorning,
Still lovelier in our human world they are.
