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But now thou wilt fill a weary throne,
What with rights of the people, and rights of thy own:
An ear-trumpet now thy sceptre should be,
Eternal debate is the future for thee.
Lord Brougham will make a six-hours' oration,
On the progress of knowledge, the mind of the nation;
Lord Grey one yet longer, to state that his place
Is perhaps less dear to himself than his race;
O'Connell will tell Ireland's griefs and her wrongs,
In speech, the mac-adamized prose of Moore's songs:
Good patience! how weary the young queen will be
Of "the flower of the earth, and the gem of the sea!"
Mr. Hume, with his watchwords 'Retrenchment and Waste,
Will insist that your wardrobe in his care be placed;
The silk he will save! the blonde he will spare—
I wish he may leave Your Grace any to wear.
That feminine fancy, a will of your own,
Is a luxury wholly denied to a throne;
And this is your future—how soon time will trace
A change and a sign on that fair and young face!
Methinks the best wish to be offered thee now,
Is—God keep the crown long from that innocent brow!
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