Happy the land, that in such mournful hour Can through the tears of parting proudly say, As we, he wrought each instrument of power For good, and o'er his people's hearts held sway. Shaping his efforts ever toward this end, That e'en the alien learned to bless his name, Healing the wounds red war had made, a friend To arts of peace, that is his crowning fame. Peacemaker, rest among thy kingly sires; Peace was thy shrine, and never war's array, Nor glories reared on force were thy desires; Thy strength was given to shield, and not to slay. Dead King, thy noblest triumph here is made. Who claims such tribute from a mighty state Reigns on; a sceptred king, though in death laid, And dying lives, beloved, immortal, great. May, 1911. THE CORONATION OF KING GEORGE V AN ODE OF EMPIRE Summer with the sun conspiring spreads her tapestry of June, Flora, all her glories flaunting, floors thy pathway flower-strewn, Hedge and field and rose-crowned wayside blush in beauty all aflame, While around thee, radiant ranging, millions give thee Sire, acclaim. Strike O Bard! thy proudest Paen, singing with a soul on fire; Paint, O Master of the canvas! all that grandeur may inspire; But thy soaring inspirations broken-winged shall flutter down, Swooning in the purpling glory lighting this an Empire's crown. Proudly moves the purple pageant over mighty London's pave, Rank on rank of gorgeous colour, stately moving wave on wave, Rank on rank the massing millions roar a welcome that upsoars Like the ocean billows breaking stormy round thy Island shores. Festooned arches, brilliant bunting, scarlet seas white-capped with plumes, Tossing, surging, rythmic swaying to melodious marching tunes, King and prince and jewelled marquis, ermine robe and silken hose, Sweeping stately, thousand bannered, on and on the pageant goes. Onward to the culmination of the long day's fevered strain, To the happy culmination with its hope of joyful reign, To the solemn coronation 'neath Westminster's wondrous pile, Treasure house of Britain's glory, loveliest heirloom of her Isle. Sepulchre sublime and mossy; Brooder old what dreams are thine, Thou who blessed our monarch's forebears since the great Confessor's time, Thou who holds the dust of princes in thy motherly embrace, Who serene through years of tumult watched upgrow a mighty race. From thy walls, oh Temple olden, thou hast watched the long years through. Seen the forest fastness broken, seen thy sons the seas subdue, Seen the Saxon hosts embattled to the conquering Norman yield, And the hunchback king remorseless die on Bosworth's bloody field.