Sits with a triple coronet.
Genius and Sorrow both have set
Their diadems above the gold —
A Qaeen three-fold !

To her the forest lent its lyre,
Hers are the sylvan dews, the fire
Of Orient suns, the mist- wreathed gleams
Of mountain streams.
She, the imperial Rhine's own child,
Takes to her heart the wood-nymph wild,
The gypsy Pelech, and the wide.
White Danube's tide.

She who beside an infant's bier
Long since resigned all hope to hear
The sacred name of '^ Mother " bless
Her childlessness.
Now from a people's sole acclaim
Receives the heart-vibrating name.
And " Mother, Mother, Mother ! " fills
The echoing hills.

Yet who is he who pines apart,
Estranged from that maternal heart,
Ungraced, unfriended, and forlorn,
The butt of scorn ?
An alien in his land of birth.
An outcast from his brethren's earth,
Albeit with theirs his blood mixed well
When Plevna fell?