Analysis of The Queen of Portugal

Young daughter of a race of kings,
Is there no crown for thee,
The blood that feeds thy being springs
From hoar antiquity.
And many are the legends told
Of thy proud house in days of old.
Methinks ’tis hard to be
A wanderer, rifled of thy own,
Banished from thy ancestral throne.

It is in vain to say, content
Dwells with the lowlier lot;
That careless smile, and brow unbent,
Are what a king knows not.
But who could lay a crown aside,
And dream no dreams of former pride,
The glorious past forget
Of days before the high command
Past meanly from their sceptred hand ?

The time has been, when for thy right
A thousand swords had sprung
Forth from their scabbards into light,
A thousand trumpets rung;
And many a banner, worked in gold,
The ’scutcheon on each crimson told
Had high in air been flung,
And Europe’s gallant chivalry
Had gathered for thy rights and thee.

Those days are past—we reason now
Where we had fought before;
And high romance, and knightly vow,
Their influence is o’er:
’Twere better for earth’s happiness
If that we calculated less,
And felt a little more.
I would not call past times again,
But wish our present to retain
What then had kindled, Queen, for thee,
A bold and ready sympathy.