In thine abode so high br Where yet one scarce can breathe, br Dear child, most tenderly br A soft song thou dost wreathe. br br Thou singest, little girl-- br Thy sire, the King is he: br Around thee glories whirl, br But all things sigh in thee. br br Thy thought may seek not wings br Of speech; dear love's forbidden; br Thy smiles, those heavenly things, br Being faintly born, are chidden. br br Thou feel'st, poor little Bride, br A hand unknown and chill br Clasp thine from out the wide br Deep shade so deathly still. br br Thy sad heart, wingless, weak, br Is sunk in this black shade br So deep, thy small hands seek, br Vainly, the pulse God made. br br Thou art yet but highness, thou br That shaft be majesty: br Though still on thy fair brow br Some faint dawn-flush may be, br br Child, unto armies dear, br Even now we mark heaven's light br Dimmed with the fume and fear br And glory of battle-might. br br Thy godfather is he, br Earth's Pope,--he hails thee, child! br Passing, armed men you see br Like unarmed women, mild. br br As saint all worship thee; br Thyself even hast the strong br Thrill of divinity br Mingled with thy small song. br br Each grand old warrior br Guards thee, submissive, proud; br Mute thunders at thy door br Sleep, that shall wake most loud. br br Around thee foams the wild br Bright sea, the lot of kings.