'Tis not the sceptre, nor the sword,
Nor gold, nor precious stone; True sympathy hath knit the cord
That binds us to the Throne.
Thy sires, in siege and battle field
Full bravely bore their part; But, without strife to thee doth yield
The fortress of the heart.
Not land from weakling nations rent
Shall keep thy memory green; But this—thy lasting monument—
She was the peoples' Queen.
[THE PRINCESS OF WALES]
1863—1892.
Seems it yestreen since we
First hailed thee, beautous bride! Sweet-smiling, by the side Of Him, our king to be.
Cheek of the pink sea-shell;
Eyes of the summer blue, Locks of the brown-gold hue; Voice clear as silver bell.
The myriads crowd the street;
Glad music, nigh and far, Outsoundeth earthly jar; And tenders welcome meet.
Nor fled thy winsome grace;
Nor did thy beauty fade, Though sad bereavement's shade Hath paled thy peerless face.