When England’s crown, to Love’s acclaim, was laid On the soft brightness of a maiden’s hair, Amid delight, Love trembled, half afraid, To give that little head such weight to bear,-- Bind on so slight a maid A kingdom’s purple--bid her hands hold high The sceptre and the heavy orb of power, To give to youth and beauty for a dower Care and a crown, sorrow and sovereignty. But from our hearts sprang an intenser flame When loyal Love met tender Love half way, And, in love’s script, wrote on the scroll of fame, Entwined with all the splendour of that day, The letters of her name. Then as fair roses grow ’mid leaves of green, Love amid loyalty grew strong and close, To hedge a pleasaunce round our Royal rose, Our sovereign maiden flower, our child, our Queen. The trumpets spake--in sonorous triumph shout, Their speech found echo in the hundred guns; From countless towers the answering bells rang out, And England’s heart spoke clamorous, through her sons, The exulting land throughout. Down streets ablaze with light the flags unfurled, Along dark, lonely hills the joy-fires crept, And eager swords within their scabbards leapt To guard our Lady and Queen against the world. Those swords are rusted now. Good men and true Dust in the dust are laid who held her dear; But from their grave the bright flower springs anew, Which for her festival we bring her here, The long years’ meed and due; The bud of homage graffed on chivalry. God took the souls that shrined the jewel of love, But made their sons inheritors thereof, In endless gold entail of loyalty. Time, compensating life, the fruit bestowed When in spent perfume passed the flower of youth; Her feet were set upon the upward road, Her face was turned towards the star of truth That in her soul abode. With youth the maid’s bright brow was garlanded But richer crowns adorn the dear white hair; The gathered love of all the years lies there, In coronal benediction on her head. She is of our blood, for hath not she, too, met The angels of delight and of despair? Does not she, too, remember and forget How bitter or how bright the lost days were? Her eyes have tears made wet; She has seen joy unveilèd even as we, Has laid upon cold clay the heart-warm kiss, She has known Sorrow for the king he is; She has held little children on her knee.