Queen Victoria.

1837.         The sunshine streaming through the staind glass         Touched her with rosy colors as she stood,         The maiden Queen of all the British realm,         In the old Abbey on that soft June day.         Youth shone within her eyes, where God had set         All steadfastness, and high resolve, and truth;         Youth flushed her cheek, dwelt on the smooth white brow         Whereon the heavy golden circlet lay.         The ashes of dead kings, the history of         A nation's growth, of strife, and victory,         The mighty past called soft through aisle and nave:         "Be strong, O Queen; be strong as thou art fair!"         A virgin, white of soul and unafraid,         Since back of her was God, and at her feet         A people loyal to the core, and strong,         And loving well her sweetness and her youth.     1901.         Upon her woman's head earth's richest crown         Hath sat with grace these sixty years and more.         Her hand, her slender woman's hand, hath held         The weightiest sceptre, held it with such power         All homage hath been hers, at home, abroad,         Where'er hath dwelt a chivalrous regard         For strength of purpose and for purity,         For grand achievement and for noble aim.         To-day the cares of State no longer vex;         To-day the crown is laid from off her brow.         Dead! The great heart of her no more will beat         With tenderness for all beneath her rule.         Dead! The clear eyes of her no more will guard         The nation's welfare. Dead! The arm of her         No more will strike a mighty blow for right         And justice; make a wide world stand amazed         That one so gentle as old England's Queen         Could be so fearless and so powerful!         Full wearily the sense of grief doth press         And weight us down. The good Queen is no more;         And we are fain to weep as children weep         When greedy death comes to the home and bears         From thence the mother, whose unfailing love         Hath been their wealth, their safeguard, and their pride.         O bells that toll in every zone and clime!         There is a sound of sobbing in your breath.         East, west, north, south, the solemn clamor goes,         Voicing a great, a universal grief!