Classic Poem

Not less a Queen, because I wear
No crown upon my weeping hair!

Not less a Mother, that my breast
Is childless, and a rifled nest!

Not less a Woman, for the oath
I swore—to be avenged for both!

O youth! thou hast a comely grace;
Strange sympathy is in thy face.

And hast thou heard of mine and me,
In that old City by the sea?

Give me thy hand, and let me feel
What one soft pressure may reveal.

I read by hands; 'twas thus I tried
My husband, when I was a bride.

'Tis well! but that it throbs too much,
As if it felt its mother's touch.

Thy mother? Tell me, is she far?
And art thou, youth, her wand'ring star?

It trembles! Dost thou fear a Queen
Discrowned, and seen as I am seen?

Nay! kneel not, kneel not! Wherefore thus
Is this wild trembling come on us?

Two strangers! Did I tremble then
Before the hosts of eager men:

That sea of savage lips and eyes,
Clamouring murder to the skies?

They threw my husband from his throne.
They mock'd me as I sat alone.

I sat in state, and let them mock:
Mad waves against the regal rock!

Robed and crown'd I calmly smiled,
And lifted up my little child.

“Your future King!” I cried aloud;
And many of the people bow'd.

But as I held it, strode a man—
A stern, black-bearded ruffian—

He strode, and snatched my child away,
Albeit I left my throne to pray.

I clung about his knotty knees,
And wept and shriek'd my agonies.

I came again to conscious breath;
I heard the anguish worse than death.

No handmaid near, but one old nurse,
Whose face flashed like a living curse;

And yet her wrinkled woman's heart
Fell faltering on the bitterest part.

She could not speak it—woe is me!
Made human by my misery.

But thou art changed! Rise from the spot;
Still at my feet? I say, kneel not!

Thou claspest me! What word?—what word?—
Mother?—is't “Mother” that I heard?

Mother, and Queen?—O, hungry breast,
Feed on his beauty!—Rest, rest, rest!

Believe, it, O true heart! now trace
Thy trembling when thou saw'st his face;

And weep, that thrones should dawn again,
To give our pleasure pomp—and pain.

Weep, weep, to see him standing there,
With his proud father's noble air.

Joy, Joy! but weep that there should be
So proud a thing as majesty.

I fear it, now it is re-won;
We will arise and go, my son!