ELIZABETH.

Elizabeth! Elizabeth!

The first May-morning whispereth

Thy gentle name in every breeze

That lispeth through the young-leaved trees,

New raimented in white and green

Of bloom and leaf to crown thee queen;—

And, as in odorous chorus, all

The orchard-blossoms sweetly call

Even as a singing voice that saith

Elizabeth! Elizabeth!

Elizabeth! Lo, lily-fair,

In deep, cool shadows of thy hair,

Thy face maintaineth its repose.—

Is it, O sister of the rose,

So better, sweeter, blooming thus

Than in this briery world with us?—

Where frost o'ertaketh, and the breath

Of biting winter harrieth

With sleeted rains and blighting snows

All fairest blooms — Elizabeth!

Nay, then!— So reign, Elizabeth,

Crowned, in thy May-day realm of death!

Put forth the scepter of thy love

In every star-tipped blossom of

The grassy dais of thy throne!

Sadder are we, thus left alone,

But gladder they that thrill to see

Thy mother's rapture, greeting thee.

Bereaved are we by life — not death —

Elizabeth! Elizabeth!