Classic Poem

In Windsor's Royal Chapel,
The nobles of the land,
The flower of dear old England,
Assemble heart and hand;
And mitred Bishops cluster
Around the Royal Pair,
Far Denmark's bud of beauty,
And Albion's noble heir.

Within this holy structure,
How many prayers ascend.
For the brave Prince and Princess,
That Heaven would them befriend!
Standing before the altar,
Their precious vows to plight;
Whose future oped in glory,
A hemisphere of light.

See, in the Royal Closet,
The Queen in sad attire;
Weeping, and wiping tear-drops,
As crashes forth the choir!
Singing, in stately numbers,
A chorale of the kind
" Albert the Good, " who vanish'd,
Leaving a light behind.

Intrude not on her sorrow,
But bless those sacred tears,
Which flow from visions rising
Out of departed years:
The dawn of love; the bridal;
The first delicious flower;
Bud after bud; affliction;
And the sad parting hour.

Intrude not on her sorrow,
O, let the fountain flow;
There's sweet relief in weeping,
It blunts the edge of woe.
It softens much that's earthy,
And sheds a power benign
Upon the chasten'd spirit,
Which surely is Divine.

Did not our blessed Saviour,
On hill and grassy glen,
In hamlet-home, and city,
Weep as He walk'd with men?
Then, break not on her sorrow,
But let the drops run down
Upon her sable garments;
" She wept to wear a crown! "

O, voices by the river,
And voices on the sea,
In city, cot, and castle,
On lawn and flowery lea,
Uprise from hearts unnumber'd,
While tears flow down the while,
" God bless our dearest Sovereign
The Queen of Britain's isle! "