45 
But thou, whose very name, proud flower, 
Reminds us of a monarch’s dower ; 
Yea, thou, so late the garden’s gem, 
Now crush’d and broken from thy stem — 
A word of counsel and of fear 
Might’st breathe, methinks, for kingly ear; 
And thus, if rightly I divine, 
Thus wouldst thou speak, were language thine; — 
“ This morn I sprang, with pride elate, 
To meet the Sun, who on his heavenly way, 
Strong as a giant, as a bridegroom gay, 
Went forth with royal state; 
Looking as if he fear’d no future cloud 
Should cross his track, or his bright splendour 
shroud. 
“ And, as I gazed, I thought the while, 
That what he was to yon o’er-arching sky — 
A light, a glory — such to earth was I; 
And then, with scornful smile, 
I felt and call’d myself the garden’s queen, 
And thought the Rose, compared with me, was 
mean. 
