The Poetical Works of Ebenezer Elliott Edited by his Son Edwin Elliott ... A New and Revised Edition: Two Volumes |
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 | The Poetical Works of Ebenezer Elliott |  |
ODE ON THE MARRIAGE OF VICTORIA THE FIRST.
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 starved men are driven,
Though marriage call'd by law-made saints,
Hath other names in heav'n.
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 starved men are driven,
Though marriage call'd by law-made saints,
Hath other names in heav'n.
Lady! may all the blessings
Which thou would'st give to all
Who call thee queen, or God their lord,
On thee, thrice blessèd, 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!
Which thou would'st give to all
Who call thee queen, or God their lord,
On thee, thrice blessèd, fall!
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Should live in love for ever,
May God return thee good for good,
And love desert thee never!
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
If millions round her weep?
In love's elysium, while hope faints,
Can Hope's Victoria sleep?
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In love's elysium sleeping,
Would'st wake, to grieve with starving men,
And worth in dungeons weeping.
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.
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.
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