The Sun.
London, England, 1864-02-02 00:00:00

By Elizabeth Sheridan Carey.

There were swift but silent footsteps, and they hurried to
and fro ;
There were eager orders spoken, but in voices whisp'ring

low ;
It had come, the hour of peril; it had thrill'd them with

surprise,
And each one, as counsel asking, look'd in the other's eyes.
A sudden flush of transport, and an icy pang of fear,

A terror struggling with fond hopes, as drew the crisis near ;
It had come, the hour of anguish that precedes a mother's

joy,
And His messenger unseen was there, to save or to destroy.
It had cosine, the dreaded moment, and they watch'd and
waited nigh,
Pale, trembling, hush'd and list'ning, when they heard a

wailing cry ;
0 blessed sound, a child was born I 0 welcome gift, an

Heir I
And up to heav'n the Angel bore, a Husband's, Father's

prayer.
Then flash'd the tidings o'er the wires, beneath the clouds
of night,
The tidings that to England's Queen brought solace and
delight :
She knew, and thrill'd with joy to know, Het first-born
Son, a Sire,
She learn'd that GOD had deign'd to crown the Nation's
haught desire ;
And, glowing with maternal love, nor lees with kingly

pride,
Swift o'er the waves she hurried to Her dear-lov'd daughter's

side :
With criroson'd cheek and beaming eye, possest with feel-
ings new,
All breathless to His Mother's arms, the youthful Father
flew,
And folded to that throbbing breast stirred with deep thank-

fulness,
Pour'd forth, in broken words and sweet, His grateful joy's
excess.

Ring out, ring out mad merry peals from tow'r and
belfry gray;
Unfurl the banner of the Realm, and bid the trumpets
bray ;
Let bonfires blaze, and hymns be heard; and blent with
cannons roar,
The thunder of our Seas proclaim the news from shore to
shore—
To Peasant's hearth, to Burgher's home, to old baronial
Halls—
To the Camp and to the Barracks, and on board the
Wooden-walls ;
From east to west, from south to north, o'er mountain,
moor, and mead,
O'er laced and sea, through town and shire, swift let the
tidings speed,
0, let the Rose of Albion bloom more brightly on its stem ;
More proudly, Scotia's Thistle lift its purple diadem ;
And glitt'ring as with holy tears, the mystic leaves of
green,
The Shamrock of lov'd Erin's Isle, a triple-gem be seen;
While, heard in Cambria's fastnesses and ringing through
her vales,
Llywellyn's Harp in triumph strain salutes the Prince of

As o'er the woods and cliffs and streams, red with the

rising sun,
Through the broad Isles rolls far and wide the booming of

the gun ;
As flutters on the ocean breeze, the Flag to vict'ry dear ;
As babbling bells with clangour sweet break on the startled

ear,
And mingling, in the house of GOD, thanksgiving, pray'r,
and praise,
As burning incense offer'd up, unnumber'd voices raise,
0, ENGLAND'S WIDOW'D MAJESTY, Thy people give Thee

joy,
And turn'd to Thee is every heart that greets the princely

Boy;
Look forth! beneath Thy palace walls rejoicing throngs

appear ;
List I louder than rude surges' roar the shouts that fill the

ear :
Behold I with vet'ran troops allied march England's Vo-

lunteers,
And high above the roll of drums ascend their ringing

cheers ;
They come, they come, with martial tread, with blithe

exultant mien ;
They halt, they turn; and rends the air the cry, God save

_
the Queen
On, on they press, the rich the poor, the lowly and the proud,
All ranks, all ages fraternise, and speak their hopes aloud.
These gath'ring crowds, these pealing bells, these deaf 'ning

shouts declare
How welcome to the Nation's heart the Crown's presump-
tive Heir.

LIEGE LADY I Sov'roign of our love, not robed in pall

of state
So dear as in the weeds of woe that mark'd Thee desolate,
We made Thy bitter sorrow ours; we gave Thee tear for tear,
And shall we not Thy gladness share who shared thy pang

severe :
No limit bath the homage due—the reverent sympathy—
To Her whose rule benignant sways the proud, the brave,

_ .
the free.
No slavish fear, no base design, no calculation mean,
No trait'rous project hides beneath the smiles that hail our

Queen ;
In all that moves Her mighty soul and melts Her woman's

heart,
Her joy, Her glory, anguish, grief, 'tie ours to claim a part :
Lo, we have mourned as they who mourn a mother's
with'ring pain;
La, we have, pining, waited long for joy to come again:
" Watchman, what of the night ?" we ask : light in the

skies afar,
And rising o'er the fleeting shades, behold a brilliant star—
Potent to comfort, He who spake and winds and sea grew

calm ;
And for the cleft and broken heart, He sends a healing balm;
In the deep suffering of Thy soul, sweet consolations Thine;
011 and bleat TIL4
Line
Thy Crown, its heritage assur'd; Thy mighty realm at peace,
And Thine, 0 Queen I a Nation's love that grows with

time's increase :
Still more to charm Thy lingering grief, to joyful thoughts
restore,
God gives Thy princely Heir a son, and bids Thy cup flow
o'er.
Be glad, 0 Lady of the Isles, lift up Thy pensive brow,
And pour the sunshine of Thy smiles upon Thy people now.
Son of 6' Her Husband Great and Good," revered
Victoria's Heir,
In whom rare fruits of culture speak Thy Royal Father's

care,
Youth, pleasures, riches, honours, Thine; to reign, thy
destiny ;
0 Prince I earth's purest happiness now heaven bestows on
Thee.

Smile Princess, lov'd and loving, smile through tears
of thinning joy,
Joy such as only mothers know ; yea, bliss without alloy :
Smile, fearless smile I we owe Tim thanks, deep gratitude
and love;
A debt supreme, acknowledg'd here and register'd above.
And Thou, fair Babe, safe pillow'd on that proud and glad-
den'd breast,
Child of our Hopes, to Empire born, 0, be thy slumbers
blest.

The unusual length of such a quotation as this front a
magazine compels us for once merely to glance very
cursorily indeed though the rest of the contribu-
tions in the periodical from which the foregoing
extract has been taken. Prominent among these
Same numerous and varied contributions are the two
serial stories now appearing in monthly instalments
in the R. S. and T. " Jacob Morriston," the one.
" Misses and Matrimony," the other, The last
mentioned being a capital, harum-scarum, heltcr-
skelter narrative that Harry Lorrequer himself
might chuckle over with enjoyment. Another
serial tale and novelette entitled " Harry Vowhamp-
tont" have commenced, moreover, in the February