Oh songs of mine! belovèd songs of mine,
            Up, up! and don your armor,
            And let the trumpets blare,
            And lift upon your shield
               This youthful maiden
         Who now shall reign supreme
         Over my heart, as queen!

      Hail! hail! thou youthful queen!

            From the sun above
         I snatch the beaming red gold,
      And weave therein a diadem
         For thy consecrated head.
From the fluttering azure-silken canopy of heaven,
      Where blaze the diamonds of night,
      A precious fragment I cut:
      And as a coronation mantle,
      I hang it upon thy royal shoulders.
            I bestow on thee a court
            Of richly-attired sonnets,
      Haughty Terzine and stately stanzas.
            My wit shall serve thee as courier,
            My fancy shall by thy fool,
Thy herald, whose crest is a smiling tear,
            Shall be my humor.

            But I myself, oh Queen,
            Low do I kneel before thee,
         On the cushion of crimson samite,
And as homage I dedicate to thee
            The tiny morsel of reason,
That has been compassionately spared me
         By thy predecessor in the realm.