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Thy garb—though Austria’s bosom-star would frighten
That medal pale, as diamonds the dark mine,
And George the Fourth wore, at his court at Brighton
A more becoming evening dress than thine;

Yet ’tis a brave one, scorning wind and weather,
And fitted for thy couch, on field and flood,
As Rob Roy’s tartan for the Highland heather,
Or forest green for England’s Robin Hood.

Is strength a monarch’s merit, like a whaler’s?
Thou art as tall, as sinewy, and as strong
As earth’s first kings—the Argo’s gallant sailors,
Heroes in history and gods in song.

Is beauty?—Thine has with thy youth departed;
But the love-legends of thy manhood’s years,
And she who perished, young and broken-hearted,
Are—but I rhyme for smiles and not for tears.

Is eloquence?—Her spell is thine that reaches
The heart, and makes the wisest head its sport;
And there’s one rare, strange virtue in thy speeches,
The secret of their mastery—they are short.

The monarch mind, the mystery of commanding,
The birth-hour gift, the art Napoleon,
Of winning, fettering, moulding, wielding, banding
The hearts of millions till they move as one: