Classic Poem

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, crowned with the firmament.

A poet thus (if love and later fame
May warrant him to wear that sacred name)
Hoped, in some pause of birth-day pomp and power,
His carol might have reached the Sovereign's bower;
Voice of a heart twice touched; once in its need,
Once by a kind word, exquisite indeed:
But Care, ungrateful to a host that long
Had borne him kindly, came and marred his song,
Marred it, and stopped, and in his envious soul
Dreamt it had ceased outright, and perished 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 bird
High 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 be
As 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 now
The ripe Guelph cheek and good straight Coburgh brow,
Pleasure and reason! May she, every day,
See some new good winning its gentle way
By means of mild and unforbidden men!
And when the sword hath bowed beneath the pen,
May her own line a patriarch scene unfold,
As far surpassing what these days behold
E'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 pillowed 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.