II. He stands alone upon the deck, Son of the noblest Queen That ever placed a royal crown Upon a brow serene. For her sake did we welcome him, Who owns an empire’s love; But now we bless him for his own,-- God bless him from above! He stands alone, a boy in years, A “mighty one” by birth, Crowned with a love that far excels The brightest crowns of earth; Nor thinks he of the pomp and power That wait his glad return, But thoughts of manly tenderness Deep in his bosom burn. III. He stands alone upon the deck, Though thousands gaze on him, He sees them not, for fond regret Has made his blue eyes dim; His boyish lip is quivering, And flushed his boyish cheek, And his tearful eye speaks more, by far, Than words could ever speak. God grant that he may ever be As good a prince as now, Nor ever may true virtue’s crown Be lifted from his brow! God bless him for his mother’s sake, God bless him for his own, As thus he stands upon the deck, ’Mid thousands all alone! ODE ON THE MARRIAGE OF THE PRINCE OF WALES. MARCH 10th, 1863. I. Roses of England of every hue, Your heads were lately bowed with the dew Of sorrow for one that was good and true, Through the length and breadth of your Island-garden, Missing a hand that had cared for you! He sleeps in your midst, O Roses, The Roses he loved and knew, And blest was your sorrow, Roses, You gave unto worth its due! II. But, O Roses, smile again, He for whom you weep Left his spirit among men When he fell asleep,-- Left his spirit and his name, Left his pure, unspotted fame, One who lives them all can claim. Smile on him, O Roses! He whose head reposes In a sacred spot of your Island-garden, Left him to you, good, brave and true, To cherish and guard you, Roses! III. And now to you he brings A treasure to keep and love, From the north-land home of the old sea kings,-- A beautiful Danish Dove! I heard proud Ocean’s waves, England’s and Denmark’s slaves, Tell it in all the caves That peep through the wall of your Island-garden! Then welcome her sweetly, Roses, She shall nestle among you soon, And shall be to the loved of him whom you loved In sorrow a priceless boon! IV. Winds that sport with the sea, Go east, west, south and north, And from every Rose of the English tree That remembers its English birth Carry from far and wide A gentle message of love To the lone Rose-queen and her garden’s pride, And his beautiful Danish Dove. TO A SNOWBIRD. I.