By shaping some august decree, Which kept her throne unshaken still, Broad-based upon her people’s will, And compass’d by the inviolate sea. _Tennyson._ LXIV HANDS ALL ROUND First pledge our Queen this solemn night, Then drink to England, every guest; That man’s the best Cosmopolite Who loves his native country best. May freedom’s oak for ever live With stronger life from day to day; That man’s the true Conservative Who lops the mouldered branch away. Hands all round! God the traitor’s hope confound! To this great cause of Freedom drink, my friends, And the great name of England, round and round. To all the loyal hearts who long To keep our English Empire whole! To all our noble sons, the strong New England of the Southern Pole! To England under Indian skies, To those dark millions of her realm! To Canada whom we love and prize, Whatever statesman hold the helm. Hands all round! God the traitor’s hope confound! To this great name of England drink, my friends, And all her glorious Empire round and round. To all our statesmen so they be True leaders of the land’s desire! To both our Houses, may they see Beyond the borough and the shire! We sail’d wherever ship could sail, We founded many a mighty state; Pray God our greatness may not fail Thro’ craven fears of being great. Hands all round! God the traitor’s hope confound! To this great cause of Freedom drink, my friends, And the great name of England, round and round. _Tennyson._ LXV BRITONS, HOLD YOUR OWN! Britain fought her sons of yore-- Britain fail’d; and never more, Careless of our growing kin, Shall we sin our fathers’ sin, Men that in a narrower day-- Unprophetic rulers they-- Drove from out the mother’s nest That young eagle of the West To forage for herself alone; Britons, hold your own! Sharers of our glorious past, Brothers, must we part at last? Shall we not thro’ good and ill Cleave to one another still? Britain’s myriad voices call, ‘Sons, be wedded each and all, Into one imperial whole, One with Britain, heart and soul! One life, one flag, one fleet, one Throne! Britons, hold your own!’ _Tennyson._ LXVI WELLINGTON AT ST. PAUL’S