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48 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: