Throned on the surety of a splendid past, With present glory clothed as with the sun, Crowned with the future’s hopes, you know at last What treasure from the years your life has won; Behold, your hands hold fast The moon of Empire, and its sway controls The tides of war and peace, while in those hands Lies tender homage out of all the lands Against whose feet your furthest ocean rolls. How seems your life, looked back at through the years? Much love, much sorrow, dead desires, lost dreams, A great life lived out greatly; hidden tears, And smiles for daily wear; strong plans and schemes, And mighty hopes and fears; War in the South and murder in the East, And England’s heart-throbs echoed by your heart When loss, and labour, and sorrow were her part, Or when Fate bade her to some flower-crowned feast. Red battle-fields whereon your soldiers died, Green pastoral fields saved by the blood of these, Duty that bade mere sorrow stand aside, And love transforming anguish into ease; Long longing satisfied, Great secrets wrenched from Nature’s grudging breast, The fruit of knowledge plucked for all to eat,-- These have you known, Life’s circle is complete, And, knowing these, you know what is Life’s best: The dear small secrets of our common life, The English woods and hills, the English home, The common joys and griefs of Mother and wife, Joy coming, going--griefs that go and come, Soul’s peace amid world’s strife; Hours when the Queen’s cares leave the woman free; Dear friendships, where the friend forgets the Queen And stoops to wear a dearer, homelier mien, And be more loved than mere Queens rise to be. And, in your hour of triumph, when you shine The centre of our triumph’s blazing star, And, gazing down your long life’s lustrous line, Behold how great your life-long glories are, Yet, in your heart’s veiled shrine, No splendour of all splendours that have been Will brim your eyes with tremulous thanksgivings, But little memories of little things-- The treasures of the woman, not the Queen. Yet, Queen, because the love of you hath wound A golden girdle all about the earth, Because your name is as a trumpet sound To call toward you men of English birth From the world’s outmost bound, Because old kinsmen, long estranged from home, Come, with old foes, to greet you, friend and kin, With kindly eyes behold your guests come in, See from afar the long procession come!