France, the brave, but too quick-blooded,
Wisely has her threat re-studied;
England now, as safe as she

From the strifes that need not be,
And the realms thus hush'd and still,
Earth with fragrant thought may fill,
Growing harvests of all good,
Day by day, as planet should,
Till it clap its hands, and cry,
Hail, matur'd humanity!

Earth has outgrown want and war;
Earth is now no childish star.

But behold, where thou dost lie,
Heeding nought, remote or nigh!
Nought of all the news we sing
Dost thou know, sweet ignorant thing
Nought of planet's love, nor people's;
Nor dost hear the giddy steeples
Carolling of thee and thine,

As if heav'n had rain'd them wine;
Nor dost care for all the pains
Of ushers and of chamberlains,
Nor the doctor's learned looks,
Nor the very bishop's books,
Nor the lace that wraps thy chin,
No, nor for thy rank, a pin.
E'en thy father's loving hand
Nowise dost thou understand,
When he makes thee feebly grasp
His finger with a tiny clasp;
Nor dost know thy very mother's
Balmy bosom from another's,

Though thy small blind lips pursue it,
Nor the arms that draw thee to it,
Nor the eyes, that, while they fold thee,
Never can enough behold thee.
Mother true and good has she,
Little strong one, been to thee,

Nor with listless in-door ways
Weaken'd thee for future days;
But has done her strenuous duty
To thy brain and to thy beauty,
Till thou cam'st, a blossom bright,
Worth the kiss of air and light;
To thy healthy self, a pleasure;
To the world, a balm and treasure.

THREE VISIONS.

OCCASIONED BY THE BIRTH AND CHRISTENING OF THE PRINCE OF WALES.

O LOVE of thanks for gentle deeds,
O sympathy with lowly needs,
O claims of care, and balms of song,
I fear'd ye meant to do me wrong,
And let me fade with stifled heart,
Ere time and I had leave to part;
But waking lately in the morn,
Just as a golden day was born,
Lo the dull clouds, by sickness wrought,
Began to break on heights of thought,
And fresh from out the Muse's sky
Three visions of a Queen had I;
Three in auspicious link benign;
One dear, one gorgeous, one divine !
The first (and let no spirit dare
That vision with my soul to share,
But such as know that angels spread
Their wings above a mother's bed)-
The first disclos'd her where she lay
In pillow'd ease, that blessed day,

Which just had made her pale with joy
Of the wish'd-for, princely boy,

Come to complete, and stamp with man,
The line which gentler grace began.
See, how they smooth her brows to rest,
Faint, meek, yet proud, and wholly blest ;
And how she may not speak the while
But only sigh, and only smile,

And press his pressing hand who vies
In bliss with her beloved eyes.

Vanish'd that still and sacred room;
And round me, like a pomp in bloom,
Was a proud chapel, heavenly bright
With lucid glooms of painted light
Hushing the thought with holy story,
And flags that hung asleep in glory,
And scutcheons of emblazon bold,
The flowers of trees of memories old.
And living human flowers were there,
New colouring the angelic air;

Young beauties mix'd with warriors gray,
And choristers in lily array,

And princes, and the genial king

With the wise companioning,

And the mild manhood, by whose side
Walks daily forth his two years' bride,
And she herself, the rose of all,
Who wears the world's first coronal,-
She, lately in that bower of bliss,
How simple and how still to this!
For ever and anon there roll'd
The gusty organ manifold,
Like a golden gate of heaven
On its hinges angel-driven
To let through a storm and weight
Of its throne's consenting's state;
Till the dreadful grace withdrew
Into breath serene as dew,

Comforting the ascending hymn
With notes of softest seraphim.
Then was call on Jesus mild;

And in the midst that new-born child
Was laid within the lap of faith,
While his prayer the churchman saith,
And gifted with two loving names—
One the heir of warlike fames,
And one befitting sage new line
Against the world grow more benign.

Like a bubble, children-blown,
Then was all that splendour flown;
And in a window by the light
Of the gentle moon at night,
Talking with her love apart
And her own o'erflowing heart,
That queen and mother did I see
Too happy for tranquillity;
Too generous-happy to endure
The thought of all the woful

poor

Who that same night laid down their heads
In mockeries of starving beds,

In cold, in wet, disease, despair,
In madness that will say no prayer;
With wailing infants, some; and some
By whom the little clay lies dumb;
And some, whom feeble love's excess,
Through terror, tempts to murderousness.
And at that thought the big drops rose
In pity for her people's woes;
And this glad mother and great queen
Weeping for the poor was seen,
And vowing in her princely will

That they should thrive and bless her still.

And of these three fair sights of mine, That was the vision most divine.

LINES

ON THE BIRTH OF THE PRINCESS ALICE.

THOUGH the laurel's courtly bough
Boast again its poet now,

One with verse, too, calm and stately,
Fit to sing of greatness greatly,
Granted yet be one last rhyme
To the muse that sang meantime,
If for nought but to make known
That she sang for love alone;
That she sang from out a heart
Used to play no sordid part;
That howe'er a hope might rise,
Strange to her unprosperous eyes,
Ere the cloud came in between
All sweet harvests and their queen,
Still the faith was not the fee
Nor gratitude expectancy.
Oh! the soul that never thought
Meanly, when a throne it fought,
Was it not as far above

All that 's mean, with one to love?

Welcome then, fair new delight,
Welcome to thy father's sight,
Welcome to thy sister, brother,
And thy sweet strong-hearted mother
(Faithful to all duties she

That could prosper them and thee),
Welcome, playmate of them all,
Future grace of bower and hall,