CROWNED AND WEDDED.
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And since, Prince Albert, men have called thy spirit high and rare,
And true to truth and brave for truth, as some at Augsburg were,—
We charge thee by thy lofty thoughts, and by thy poet-mind
Which not by glory and degree takes measure of mankind,
Esteem that wedded hand less dear for sceptre than for ring,
And hold her uncrowned womanhood to be the royal thing!
And true to truth and brave for truth, as some at Augsburg were,—
We charge thee by thy lofty thoughts, and by thy poet-mind
Which not by glory and degree takes measure of mankind,
Esteem that wedded hand less dear for sceptre than for ring,
And hold her uncrowned womanhood to be the royal thing!
And now, upon our Queen's last vow, what blessings shall we pray?
None straitened to a shallow crown, will suit our lips to-day.
Behold, they must be free as love—they must be broad as free—
Even to the borders of heaven's light and earth's humanity!
Long live she!—send up loyal shouts—and true hearts pray between,—
"The blessings happy peasants have, be thine, O crowned Queen!"
None straitened to a shallow crown, will suit our lips to-day.
Behold, they must be free as love—they must be broad as free—
Even to the borders of heaven's light and earth's humanity!
Long live she!—send up loyal shouts—and true hearts pray between,—
"The blessings happy peasants have, be thine, O crowned Queen!"
Crowned and Buried.
Napoleon!—years ago, and that great word,
Compact of human breath in hate and dread
And exultation, skied us overhead—
An atmosphere whose lightning was the sword,
Scathing the cedars of the world,—drawn down
In burnings, by the metal of a crown.
Compact of human breath in hate and dread
And exultation, skied us overhead—
An atmosphere whose lightning was the sword,
Scathing the cedars of the world,—drawn down
In burnings, by the metal of a crown.
Napoleon! Nations, while they cursed that name,
Shook at their own curse; and while others bore
Its sound, as of a trumpet, on before,
Brass-fronted legions justified its fame—
And dying men, on trampled battle-sods,
Near their last silence, uttered it for God's.
Shook at their own curse; and while others bore
Its sound, as of a trumpet, on before,
Brass-fronted legions justified its fame—
And dying men, on trampled battle-sods,
Near their last silence, uttered it for God's.
