Queen and empress, — here and there, —
⁠English pride is laid to sleep,
Seated in th' imperial chair,
⁠State in brand-new fashion keep!
India entreats thy light,
Empress, excellently bright.

England, let not thy dull shade
⁠Dare itself to interpose,
India's diadem was made
⁠Queens to cheer as day does close.
Dazzle, then, with Dizzy's light,
Empress, excellently bright.

Lay th' historic crown apart,
⁠Mindful of thy teeming quiver;
Give to the grand-duchess' heart
⁠Joy of pride, how short soever.
Make of princely darkness light,
Empress, excellently bright.

Birds cannot always sing;
⁠Silence at times they ask, to nurse spent feeling;
To see some new, bright thing,
⁠Ere afresh burst of song, fresh joy revealing.

Flowers cannot always blow;
⁠Some sabbath-rest they need of silent winter;
Ere from its sheath below
⁠Shoots up a small, green blade, brown earth to splinter.

Tongues cannot always speak;
⁠O God! in this loud world of noise and clatter,
Save us this once-a-week,
⁠To let the sown seed grow, not always scatter.

Within her well-loved abbey's utmost corner,
⁠Ensculptured and secluded, low she lies,
Whose head at highest bent to every mourner,
⁠Whose eyes to all sad eyes.

This niche is lovely with the people's sorrow,
⁠Her grave is blossoming with all loves today;
Princes and toilers were at one to borrow
⁠Earth's flowers for earth's clay;

Also, Christ's lambs, whom she forbade not, bringing
⁠Their cross of white, and scholars of the school,
And they that tend the sick, and they whose singing
⁠Fills the great church heart-full.

Violets and ivy, lily and rose together,
⁠In cross and chaplet, laid together down,
Make fair the place, and Arctic mosses feather, —
⁠The faithful servant's crown.

Slow creep the shadows through the curtained room,
⁠As dies the crimson sun from out the west,
And round the sleeper falls a solemn gloom.
⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠Rest, baby, rest!

Hush! for the wind moans through the branches hoar,
⁠And snowflakes' wings against the pane are prest.
Hush! for an angel's step hath passed the door.
⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠Rest, baby, rest!

Hush! for a sound of tears that needs must flow
⁠Filleth the air, with stillness else opprest,
As wild a wounded heart sobs out its woe.
⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠Rest, baby, rest!

Around thee fairest flowers will soon be spread,
⁠Their blossoms breathing sweetness on thy breast —
Flowers that are sacred to the early dead.
⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠Rest, baby, rest!

Paler than those pale flowers is thy calm brow,
⁠And cold as mountain snow-wreath's frozen crest,
For in the shadowy vale thy spirit now
⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠Doth rest, doth rest!