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MADAM,

I have the honour to place in your Majesty's hands the hitherto uncollected and unpublished Prose Works of

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

—name sufficient in its simpleness to give lustre to any page.

Having been requested thus to collect and edit his Prose Writings by those who hold his MSS. and are his nearest representatives, one little discovery or recovery among these MSS. suggested your Majesty as the one among all others to whom the illustrious Author would have chosen to dedicate these Works, viz. a rough transcript of a Poem which he had inscribed on the fly-leaf of a gift-copy of the collective edition of his Poems sent to the Royal Library at Windsor Castle. This very tender, beautiful, and pathetic Poem will be found on the other side of this Dedication. It must 'for all time' take its place beside the living Laureate's imperishable verse-tribute to your Majesty.

I venture to thank your Majesty for the double permission so appreciatively given—of this Dedication itself and to print (for the first time) the Poem. The gracious permission so pleasantly and discriminatingly signified is only one of abundant proofs that your Majesty is aware that of the enduring names of the reign of Victoria, Wordsworth's is supreme as Poet and Thinker.

Gratefully and loyally,

ALEXANDER B. GROSART.

Deign, Sovereign Mistress! to accept a lay, No Laureate offering of elaborate art; But salutation taking its glad way From deep recesses of a loyal heart.

Queen, Wife, and Mother! may All-judging Heaven

Shower with a bounteous hand on Thee and Thine

Felicity that only can be given

On earth to goodness blest by grace divine.

Lady! devoutly honoured and beloved

Through every realm confided to thy sway;

Mayst Thou pursue thy course by God approved,

And He will teach thy people to obey.

As Thou art wont, thy sovereignty adorn

With woman's gentleness, yet firm and staid;

So shall that earthly crown thy brows have worn

Be changed for one whose glory cannot fade.

And now, by duty urged, I lay this Book

Before thy Majesty, in humble trust

That on its simplest pages Thou wilt look

With a benign indulgence more than just.

Nor wilt Thou blame an aged Poet's prayer,

That issuing hence may steal into thy mind

Some solace under weight of royal care,

Or grief—the inheritance of humankind.

For know we not that from celestial spheres,

When Time was young, an inspiration came

(Oh, were it mine!) to hallow saddest tears,

And help life onward in its noblest aim?

W.W.

9th January 1846.