Mother, dear Mother, these your children rise And call you blessèd, and shall we not, too, Who are your children in the greater wise, And love you for our land and her for you? The blessing sanctifies Your children as they breathe it at your knees, And, bringing little gifts from very far, Where the great nurseries of your Empire are, Your children’s blessings throng from over seas. On Love’s spread wings, and over leagues of space, Homage is borne from far-off sun-steeped lands; From many a domed mysterious Eastern place, Where Secresy holds Time between her hands, The children of your race Reach English hands towards your English throne; And from the far South turn blue English eyes, That never saw the blue of English skies, Yet call you Mother, and your land their own. Where ’mid great trees the mighty waters flow In arrogant submission to your sway, In fur of price your northern hunters go, And shafts of ardent greeting fly your way Across the splendid snow; And isles that with their coral, safe and small, Rock in the cradle of the tropic seas, In soft, strange speech join in the litanies That pride and prayer breathe at your festival. All round the world, on every far-off sea, In wind-ploughed oceans and in sun-kissed bays, By every busy wharf and chattering quay, Some cantle of your Empire sails or stays-- Flaunts your supremacy Against the winds of all the world, and flies Your flag triumphant between blue and blue, Blazons to sun and star the name of you, And spreads your glory between seas and skies. There is no cottage garden, sunny-sweet, There is no pasture where our shepherds tend Their quiet flocks, no red-roofed village street, But holds for you the love-wish of a friend, Blent with high homage meet; No little farm among the cornfields lone, No little cot upon the uplands bare, But hears to-day in blessing and in prayer One name, Victoria, and that name your own. From the vast cities where the giant’s might, Pauseless, resistless, moves by night and day, From hidden mines where day is one with night, From weary lives whose days and nights are grey And empty of delight, From lives that rhyme to sunshine and the spring, From happiness at flood and hope at ebb, Rose the magnificent and mingled web That floats, your banner, at your thanksgiving.