The Poetical Works of Leigh Hunt/To the Queen
TO THE QUEEN.
AN OFFERING OF GRATITUDE ON HER MAJESTY'S BIRTHDAY.
The lark dwells lowly, Madam,—on the ground,—And yet his song within the heavens is found;The basest heel may wound him ere he rise,But soar he must, for love exalts his eyes.Though poor, his heart must loftily be spent,And he sings free, crown'd with the firmament.
A poet thus (if love and later fameMay warrant him to wear that sacred name)Hoped, in some pause of birthday-pomp and power,His carol might have reach'd the Sovereign's bower;Voice of a heart twice touch'd; once in its need,Once by a kind word, exquisite indeed:But Care, ungrateful to a host that longHad borne him kindly, came and marr'd his song,Marr'd it, and stopp'd, and in his envious soulDreamt it had ceas'd outright, and perish'd whole.Dull god! to know not, after all he knew,What the best gods, Patience and Love, can do.The song was lamed, was lated, yet the birdHigh by the lady's bower has still been heard,Thanking that balm in need, and that delightful word. Blest be the queen! Blest when the sun goes down;When rises, blest. May Love line soft her crown.May music's self not more harmonious be,Than the mild manhood by her side and she.May she be young for ever—ride, dance, sing,"Twixt cares of state carelessly carolling,And set all fashions healthy, blithe, and wise,From whence good mothers and glad offspring rise.May everybody love her. May she beAs brave as will, yet soft as charity;And on her coins be never laurel seen,But only those fair peaceful locks serene,Beneath whose waving grace first mingle nowThe ripe Guelph cheek and good straight Coburgh brow,Pleasure and reason! May she, every day,See some new good winning its gentle wayBy means of mild and unforbidden men!And when the sword hath bow'd beneath the pen,May her own line a patriarch scene unfoldAs far surpassing what these days beholdE'en in the thunderous gods, iron and steam,As they the sceptic's doubt, or wild man's dream!And to this end-oh! to this Christian end,And the sure coming of its next great friend,May her own soul, this instant, while I sing,Be smiling, as beneath some angel's wing,O'er the dear life in life, the small, sweet, new,Unselfish self, the filial self of two,Bliss of her future eyes, her pillow'd gaze,On whom a mother's heart thinks close, and prays.
Your beadsman, Madam, thus, "in spite of sorrow,Bids at your window, like the lark, good morrow.