Poems (Osgood)/Victoria, on her way to Guildhall

by Frances Sargent Osgood

VICTORIA,

On her way to Guildhall.

They told me the diamond-tiar on her head
 Gleam'd out like chain-lightning amid her soft hair,
They told me the many-hued glory it shed
 Seem'd a rainbow still playing resplendently there;
I mark'd not the gem's regal lustre the while,
I saw but her sunny, her soul-illumed smile.

They told me the plume floated over her face,
 Like a snowy cloud shading the rose-light of morn:
I saw not the soft feather's tremulous grace,
 I watch'd but the being by whom it was worn;
I watch'd her white brow as benignly it bent,
While the million-voiced welcome the air around rent.

They told me the rich silken robe that she wore
 Was of exquisite texture and loveliest die,
Embroider'd with blossoms of silver all o'er,
 And clasp'd with pure jewels that dazzled the eye:
I saw not, I thought not of clasp, robe, or wreath,
I thought of the timid heart beating beneath.

I was born in a land where they bend not the knee,
 Save to One—unto whom even monarchs bow down:
But lo! as I gazed, in my breast springing free,
 Jove knelt to her sweetness, forgetting her crown;
And my heart might have challenged the myriads there,
For the warmth of its praise, and the truth of its prayer.

And to her—to that maiden, young, innocent, gay,
 With the wild-rose of childhood yet warm on her cheek,
And a spirit, scarce calm'd from its infantine play
 Into woman's deep feeling, devoted and meek;
To her—in the bloom of her shadowless youth—
Proud millions are turning with chivalrous truth.

It is right,—the All-judging hath order'd it so;
 In the light of His favor the pure maiden stands:
And who, that has gazed on that cheek's modest glow,
 Would not yield without murmur his fate to her hands?
Trust on, noble Britons! trust freely the while!
I would stake my soul's hope on the truth of that smile!