But at man's side each hour with ambush'd sword Death hurries, nor for prayer nor love delays; In God's own time His harvest-sheaves are stored, 'For My thoughts are not your thoughts,' saith the Lord, 'Nor are your ways My ways.' He Who spared not the Son His bitter cup, The broken heart binds up In His fit hour, All-Merciful!--And she, The desolate faithful Mother, in the nest By children's love soft-woven, has found rest; Some constant to her side, if some have flown The Angels' road, and see The Vision of the Eternal Throne:-- With them, 'tis well!--But thou, Strong through submission, to His will dost bow, Till God renew the home in that far realm unseen, And bless with all her lost ones England's Queen. Yet in great Nature's changeful mystic dance Joy circles grief, gay dawn outsmiles the night: 'Tis meet our song should build its radiance Like some high palace-porch, and walls that glance With gold and marble light: Now fifty suns 'neath one firm patriot sway Have whirl'd their shining way. --Lo Commerce with the golden girdling chain That links all nations for the good of each; While Science boasts her silent lightning speech Swifter than thought; and how her patience rein'd To post o'er earth and main The panting white-breath'd Titan, chain'd Bondslave to man:--and won The magic spark o'erdazzling star and sun From its dark cave: for He, the all-seeing Lord unseen Enlightening, bless'd the years of England's Queen. Freedom of England! from thy sacred source Where Alfred arm'd in Athelney, welling pure, With hero-blood dyed in thy widening course, --What loyaler hand than her's to guide thy force Down ancient channels sure? Honour of England! in what bosom stirs Thy soul more quick than her's? Yet in her days . . . O greater grief, than when In years of woe, the years of happiness Flash o'er us,--to behold,--and no redress,-- Some deed of shame we cannot cure nor stay! Our best, our man of men, Martyr'd inch-meal by dull delay! Ah, sacred, hidden grave! Ah gallant comrade feet, love-wing'd to save, Too late, too late!--But Thou, Whose counsels work unseen, Spare us henceforth such pangs, spare England's Queen