Thou who hast carried thy benignant smile
To distant regions owning England's sway,
Thy mother-land is proud of thee to-day—
Foremost of women, scorning with base wile
For private ends through passion to beguile,
Yet claiming priestly right pure hands to lay
Upon the ark of progress, and to stay
It haply from such fall as would defile.

Meseems of many tears at parting wrung
From eyes so kind, their sorest would be wept
For those grown children to your skirts who clung,
Having through custom's fruitless jungle crept
Before that sob which burst as from one breast
Shook the Zenanas from their age-long rest.