I saw her mid the glittering throng! upon her brow there shone
Gems only such as queens may wear upon the stately throne;
Yet she heeded not their brightness—Alas! stern thought had pressed
Upon her soul, and made her feel that rulers have no rest.
So young—to find youth's freshness—bloom—thus fading from thy heart,
The sunshine and the fairy hours mid actual toils depart,—
To grow so soon inured to know thou mayst not hope nor fear,
That love is only for the herd, not for the royal ear:
That thou art but an idol for the worship of the crowd,—
A beacon, whence a smile or frown may cheer or quail the proud;
That thou art unapproachable—none, none to share thy woe:
Oh! who would envy crownēd heads, or seek their path to know.
I weep for thee, Victoria—I weep thy lonely state—
Alas! thy life has many thorns, no flow'rs thy crown may mate;
Alone, amid a courtly crowd, no hand may greet thine own,
Thou fair star shining in the west—thou queen upon thy throne.