She bends before our gentle Queen, The youngest, fairest, ever seen, The Rose of England’s rich parterre (Where every flower is passing fair); All youth, all hope, all loveliness, Whom millions only name to bless. How dazzling is that open brow! Not even the diadem, whose glow Encircles it with lustre bright, Casts into shade its gentle light; So dignified, so lofty, mild, There meet the angel, woman, child. O! who could gaze upon thy face, Young scion of a royal race, Without that warm and earnest feeling, To hand, and heart, and word, appealing, Which stirred so well in days gone by Old England’s glorious chivalry, And now surrounds thy stately throne With millions proud thy sway to own, Ready the wide world to defy, And quick to arm—and blest to die, Ere from thy royal coronal Its smallest gem shall fade or fall! Thy gracious glance, with gentle spell } Can many a fluttering tremor quell, } As our young timid maid can tell; } Who never even in dreams hath been In such a bright and gorgeous scene. Before her, sparkling in the light, Dance waving plumes, flash diamonds bright; A thousand trains come sweeping by, A thousand beauties meet her eye: But o’er them all, like star serene, She sees her lovely, gentle Queen! And now,—the presentation o’er Which opens Fashion’s fairy door— A thousand perfumed billets come Scrawled with these peaceful words, “At Home!” She, in her young simplicity, Admires the domesticity Of those whom opera, dinner, rout, Tempt to the sparkling world without! But soon (the enigma’s point to reach) A few entrancing midnights teach By nodding plumes, and whirling feet, And wheels that thunder down the street, And glittering lamps, and music loud, “_At home_,” in London means “_a crowd!_” No longer decked in waving plumes, Mary a simpler dress assumes,— A robe that well her form displays, And many a silken ringlet strays Round pearly brow, and cheek that glows With Youth and Health’s most brilliant rose, At her first ball—where smile and stare Our heroine’s rising power declare— Her mother proud, with practised eye, Dissects the crowds that hover nigh; No younger brother dare draw near, To whisper in her treasure’s ear. Ah! in the world where hearts are stakes, Too oft the blessing Esau takes! Now, shall we gently cast aside The veil that Mary’s heart doth hide? And whisper to all friendly ears, That child-like as the maid appears,— There is one youth, whose glance hath met Her own—she longs to know, and yet, For worlds she could not ask his name: The thought’s enough to tint with shame Her fair young cheek—though, truth to own, The maiden now hath curious grown, For those deep lustrous eyes have cast Spells o’er her thoughts to hold them fast; She looked but once, and half was won— She looked again, her heart was gone!