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ODE ON THE MARRIAGE OF VICTORIA THE FIRST.

1

Queen of our Hearts! true marriage
Is made of solid bread;
Not so, that Many-Childed Plague
Which curseth board and bed:
The ghastly league of woe with crime,
To which starv'd men are driv'n,
Though marriage call'd by law-made saints,
Hath other names in heav'n.
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2

Lady! may all the blessings
Which thou would'st give to all
Who call thee queen, or God their lord,
On thee, thrice blessed, fall!
If 'tis thy wish that every pair
Should live in love for ever,
May God return thee good for good,
And love desert thee never!

3

But want and crime, Victoria,
Law-wedded in this land,
Are curses, million-multiplied,
That frown on every hand;
And thou wilt wake, with him thou lov'st,
From brief and troubled slumbers,
If law of thine deal lessening loaves
To famine's doubling numbers.

4

Where'er they are, thy kinglings
Sow baseness, cant, and pride;
The name of their feudality
By wretched men is sigh'd:
Deep hatred of their race accurs'd
Gaunt orphan-victims cherish;
At home, abroad, the millions groan,
The hopeless millions perish.
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5

Then, be a Man, Victoria,
If thou would'st reign, a Queen!
Wise must thou be, and brave, and all
That honour's best have been,
If thou would'st tame the Feudal Beast,
Whose hydra-headed howling
Appals the devils whom he serves,
And Ruin, o'er him scowling.

6

Remember Austria's daughter!
And lest thy true heart fail,
Ask what were they for whom she died,
When banded kings turn'd pale?
Around her, throne and altar fell,
In thousand fragments shiver'd,
Because she hearken'd unto men
Who would not be deliver'd!

7

Beautiful as the cistus,
That o'er the stonechat's nest
Stoops, when the moorland clouds lie down
On evening's lap to rest,
Art thou, my Queen! the morning dews
Upon the orchard blossom,
Are not more pure than is the heart
Within thy royal bosom.
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8

But can the Queen be happy,
If millions round her weep?
In love's elysium, while hope faints,
Can Hope's Victoria sleep?
No. Bringer of Redemption! thou,
In love's elysium sleeping,
Would'st wake, to grieve with starving men,
And worth in dungeons weeping.

9

The woodbine's cluster'd beauty,
That hides the brooding thrush,
And weds the wild hedgerose, when Morn
Shakes pearls from tree and bush,
All trembling like the skylark's wing,
Would dread his voice of gladness,
And hate the marriages of Spring,
If dower'd with hate and sadness.

10

Behold that silent captive,
Apprentic'd to the tomb!
His heart-worn features glimmering through
The dull damp prison-gloom!
Roden? or Bradshaw? is he call'd;
Shaw? Oastler? Greg? O'Connor?
No. What his crime? Say, hath he sold
His memory to dishonour?
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11

Hath he traduc'd a nation,
Because three hundred years
Have seen her trampled people drink
Subjection's poison'd tears?
All other shame hath he eclips'd,
Barbarian, Greek, and Roman,
Blaspheming all bless'd names in one,
The sacred name of woman?

12

Hath he betray'd the people
Unto the people's foes?
Mean triumphs given to paltriest men,
Whose gods are bonds and blows?
Deceived the poor, the everwrong'd?
And factious, noisy, froward,
Urg'd them to unpartaken death—
A cruel, skulking coward?

13

No. He whose spirit dieth
Beneath that dungeon's pall,
Proclaim'd that all men equal are,
For God is sire of all!
Oh, Lady, if thy heart were stone,
His tale of tears would move it!
The man thou see'st is guileless, brave;
Kind, childlike William Lovett.
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14

And names of crimeless sorrow
Are whisper'd, aye, and heard,
When wide-wing'd Trouble hovers o'er
Doom'd empires, like a bird;
Till wildly old subverted states,
While tears of blood are gushing,
Create the Force that crusheth Power—
Like upturn'd ocean's rushing.

15

At voluntary tumult
Misrule may safely frown:
Not mobs that will, but mobs that must,
Bring thron'd Oppression down!
And wise are they who timely hear
The gentle voice, which pleadeth
That self-endanger'd Pomp would grant
The safeguards it most needeth.
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