Dead in the mid-Pacific!—Hapless Queen,
Widowed and childless when thy woman's heart
Was fresh and young, but bearing sorrow's smart
As 'twere another wreath which the Unseen
Had crowned thee with—a wreath of sadder mien—
The cypress, not the orange,—and yet worn
Meekly, as mindful that the rose's thorn—
Even as the rose itself—though sharp and keen,
Is God's gift none the less.—I heard thee tell
Of happy days spent in the island home
Of England's laureate.—Were mine his spell,
A wave of fitting verse should break in foam
At thy grave's foot, while fairest flowers should smile
Above thee in the far Hawaiian isle!