Foremost, and leaning from her golden cloud,
The venerable Margaret[8] see!
'Welcome, my noble son!' she cries aloud,
'To this thy kindred train, and me:
Pleased, in thy lineaments we trace
A Tudor's[9] fire, a Beaufort's grace. 70
Thy liberal heart, thy judging eye,
The flower unheeded shall descry,
And bid it round Heaven's altars shed
The fragrance of its blushing head;
Shall raise from earth the latent gem
To glitter on the diadem.