Nature, thy fairy godmother,
Has lavished, for thy part,
A prodigality of gifts
To make thee what thou art:
The lovely face, the gifted mind,
The kind and generous heart.
PASTA.
I see thee, with thy night-black hair
Flung wild and loose in thy despair;
Upraised are thy imploring hands
To heaven, which yet thy prayer withstands;
And in thy deep and flashing eye
Is passion's utter agony.
A Grecian statue dost thou seem,
Wrought up in some tumultuous dream;
While in the music of thy tone
Is every thrill to sorrow known.
Queen art thou—and still must be queen,
While one heart keeps thy haunting scene.
WELLINGTON.
The conqueror of a thousand fields!
Not as in olden time,
When carnage urged its crimson path,
And conquest was a crime—
But in a universal war
For every right sublime.
The laurel that he wears should have
In English hearts its birth;
His victories kept inviolate
Our island's sacred earth;
They were the glorious ransom given
For every English hearth.
