Ode on the Coronation of King George V

When Nature takes away the things we prize,With all a mother's patient tendernessShe soothes us, and from treasure limitlessBrings forth new joys to gladden our grieved eyes.

Before the leaves fall fluttering to the groundAffrighted at the very breath and soundOf the wind's passion, she from blight and stormGarners the seeds of Summer, safe and warm.

She knows, though glad and sweet the wild bird sing,How soon the trillium of the wood shall fade,—Nor longer with its stars illume the shade,—She knows, and harvests for a future Spring;

And though about her winds of Autumn sigh,And though the rose—the rose, itself, must die,And though the lordly pine that scorns to bendMust fall at last,—she knows there is no end.

Sure of her birthright—elemental, vast,—Calmly she waits; but man, to whom is givenEarth in its fullness and the dream of heaven,Still looks with fond regret unto a past

Whose colors fade not in the distant light,But rather to his worship grow more bright,And careless as to that the future saith,Pays tribute to the nothingness of death.

When the fourth Henry, in that chamber calledJerusalem, lay dying, with what fear,Knowing the Angel-of-the-Shadow near,Must he have viewed the future and, appalled,Beheld succeeding to his perilous throne—To reign and rule alone—One who to Folly turned a laughing face,Dallied with Fortune, and out-dared Disgrace.

More grievous, as the fatal hour drew nigh,More dreadful than the death he might not fly,More poignant than regret or mortal painOr memories of woeful Richard slain,—More tragic than all else to him the thoughtThat his own offspring, in but little while,Consorting with the worthless and the vile,Should bring his dearly purchased good to naught.

Fainting, the King saw sorrows multiply,And out of weakness dared to prophesyEvil of Harry Monmouth! nor might guess How idle his distressFor one whose future Honour should secureIn human hearts and in heroic story,—The King new found, new crowned, at Agincourt,—Great England's darling and her future glory!

But how should doubt not add to care its painWhen, after Mary Tudor's baleful reign,Forth came from prison drearAnother Queen? Yet 't was her spirit, firedBy grave ambition, nobly men inspiredTo victories thrice dear,—Giving her Age to breathe immortal breath,Illustrious in the name Elizabeth!

Still with misgiving crowns are laidUpon the brow of kings.Yet oft have fairest plantings been repaidWith poorest harvestings,While following vain auguries of illTo man have come, beneficently born,Such reigns as his whose tact and generous willThe Nations of the earth late joined to mourn.

But no misgiving clouds the Future now!In all the ages rarely hath there beenSuch light of hope upon the forehead seenAs that which haloes her auroral brow,Whose puissance shall uplift the poor and weak,Whose love shall teach, to such as wisdom seek,That they are blest who give, they only freeWho in the strength of Law find liberty!

England, it is thy coronation hour!Doubt is of high and ancient lineage,But faith is more than plenitude of power,And now—distrust were treason. Turn in pride,

O England, to thy happy heritage!And as the bridegroom forth to meet the brideFares smiling, so, from cloudy griefs of night,Turn thou where lovely dawns the day's new light,

And with wise trust, the fruit of loyalty,To his great father's throneMake doubly welcome Alexandra's son—Thy son, O England!—worthy thine to be!

Far from thy beauteous isle, across the Sea,A Sister-Land prays heaven for him and thee—Prays that the coming ages still may singThe blessings of his reign. God save the King!