(To a Welsh Air of the name)
From the starving City
She turned her couch to seek,
With pearls of tender pity
On her queenly cheek;
There in restless slumber
She dreamt that she was one
Of that most piteous number
By distress undone.
In among that sullen brood,
In homeless want she glided,
While in mock solicitude
Her fate they thus derided:
"Queen, now bear thee queenly,
In destiny's despite!
If _thou_ wilt starve serenely,
We poor wretches might."
But, amid their mocking,
"The King, the King!" they cry,
And forward they run flocking
While He passes by;
With the crowd she mixes
Her cruel shame to hide;
When, O, what wonder fixes
The surging human tide?
There One stood, with thorn-crown'd head,
Hands of supplication,
Multiplying mystic bread
For her famished nation.
"Children thus remember
My poor and Me!" He spoke,
And in her palace chamber
Weeping she awoke.