And when weak-minded foreigners Ask what it’s all about, With what enthusiastic pride All haste to point him out! “Now, welcome, welcome, Arthur!” The greetings still increase: “Thrice welcome on thy birthday morn, “To the Waterloo of Peace!” * * * * * Since five o’clock this morning, Nay, some have said, before, The folks have been collecting By myriads and more. Franticly strive officials To keep the passage free: As well might Brighton lobsters Attempt to stop the sea! For like a herd scholastic, Let loose from desk and form, John Bull and all his family, Carry the Park by storm. From Palace e’en to Palace, Can only heads be seen, That pushing past, in wild career, Policeman, Guardsman, Grenadier, Rush on to meet the Queen. Then round our good Victoria, As slowly on she past, A hundred winged whispers Come floating thick and fast. “What if these millions rise in arms? “Think on the Bourbon’s fate! “What if but _one_ assail thee? “Back--ere it be too late!” Round gazed she, as not deigning Such fears to entertain: Yes--if indeed they hated her, Then had she lived in vain! For the people’s glow of welcome Is the Monarch’s purest gem-- And her heart was calm and confident In its honest love for _them_! “O England--gallant England! “So tried--and yet so true! “You will not do your sovereign wrong, “Who trusts her all to you!” So she spake, and smiling showed The young heir by her side, And mid a thunder of applause, Sailed through the living tide. And now she gains the Transept, And now her royal throne: Now burst the sweet young voices, And swells the organ’s tone: Now with her Lord and children, And smiles of winning grace, She passes through the joyous crowd, That all may see her face. And that face will be remembered To many a distant day, When the glitter of the pageant Like a dream has passed away; And the frankness and the kindliness Of that auspicious scene, Shall link with all our better thoughts, Our English-hearted Queen! And in the homes of labour, When all have learnt to know The one sweet tie of brotherhood God knit for man below-- When honest toil is resting Beside his quiet hearth, And forgets the gloom of forge and loom, In his children’s fearless mirth; When the wrongs are all forgiven, And the law of kindness rules, When the swords are turned to ploughshares, And the prisons into schools; When rich and poor together, Flock to the House of Prayer, And not a cloud of bitterness Disturbs the sunshine _there_;