Again—this time the chaplet was his own—
The people wreathed their laurels for his brow;
His horses trod on flowers; the city shone
With flags of victory; and none but now—
As with no vaunting mien he wore his bays—
Confessed him brave as good, and gave their praise.
Peace smiled anew; the kingdom was at rest.
Ah, happy Queen! whom every matron’s tongue
Ran envious of, with such a consort blest
As wins the heart of women, old and young;