Never one in your kingdom, my queen,

Who stands in your presence serene,

Would take the first step less or more,

Or pose otherwise on the floor,

Or bend a whit deeper the knee,

Or speak but as low as can be,

And then at your royal command;

And never a lord in the land

Would stir the fine blade in its sheath,

Or a marchioness rustle her wreath,

Or a page grow too lean or too stout

For fear of an exile, no doubt.

And yet I remember the first

Thro’ order and system to burst,

Old freedom of ways to reclaim,

To the arras majestic one day,

In his lace and his velvet array,

And rioted gallantly round,

And talked of his horse and his hound,

And gave milord’s buckler a clang

And leaped o’er the marbles, and sang,

And laughed in barbarian glee,

Disturbing your stately levee;—

Till the horrified ladies came down

And bore him away, at your frown.

That was a twelvemonth ago.

You sit there as placid as snow:

In ease and politeness and state,

The court holds its doings of late,

With nothing to vex with a qualm

That formal, respectable calm.

Patrician reproofs are forgot,

Liege lady! say, what would you give

Henceforward as long as you live,

For the roguish soft clutch at your hair,

The capers and curvets in air,

The laughter’s wild musical flow,

That you frowned at a twelvemonth ago?