XVI.

Be with us now;

A Day of many-sided thought

That curves the brow

With lines of memory, interwrought With hope, and gratitude unbought.

XVII.

O Queen! this Day

Thy People, generous and just,

As well they may,

Confirm anew their sacred trust

Enshrined in half a century's dust.

XVIII.

For fifty years

Thy People's love has been content

(In spite of tears,

And bitter sorrows sadly blent)

To raise to Thee Love's monument.

XIX.

A Trophy, based

On duty done, on faction quelled,

No deed defaced

By broken word, or faith withheld,

No foe by stratagem compelled.

XX.

Not stone or brass,

These perish with the flight of Time,

And quickly pass;

But Love endures in every clime,

Eternal as the Poet's rhyme.

XXI.

Not brass or stone,

These will corrode, and some day die,

But Love alone

Laughs at decay, and soars on high

In fragrant immortality.

XXII.

Thy Royal Robe

Is starred by Love: its purple Hem
Surrounds the Globe:

But true Love is the fairest Gem

Of Thy Imperial Diadem.

XXIII.

Queen of the Sea!

What prouder title dignifies

A Monarchy?

The Orient owns it, and it lies

Amidst Thy countless Colonies;

XXIV.

A wayward realm,

Yet ruled in Love for the world's gain ;

Thou guid'st the Helm

That brings our commerce o'er the main,

And makes us rich without a stain.

XXV.

The Sisters Nine

Were all Thy friends; a willing guest

Each one was Thine,

In turn to cheer, or give Thee rest,
Thy choice, they knew, was always best.

XXVI.

And Science came

To meet Thee, and enrich Thy store
With Heaven-sent flame,

To burn-like Vesta's lamp-before

A sacred altar as of yore.

XXVII.

Thy welcome gave

New impulse to her, and each day,

Like a freed slave,

She worked in Love such deeds, her ray

Shed light and truth around Thy way.

XXVIII.

No tongue can tell

Thy peaceful triumphs; mighty War

Has his as well,

But Peace has greater, nobler far

Than the chained victims of his Car.

XXIX.

Thy Jubilee

Is marked by Love; 'tis all Thine own, And given to Thee

By all-a sweet flower fully blown,

The grace and grandeur of Thy Throne.

XXX.

'Tis Thy just meed

For fifty years of righteous reign;

No heart doth bleed

In all Thy kingdom, but the pain

Throbs in Thine own and not in vain !

XXXI.

I pray Thee take,

In some exchange for all the good

That Thou dost make,

The troubles Thy brave heart withstood,

Thy temperate yet undaunted mood,

XXXII.

These grateful lines;

As the sweet myrtle wreathes the bay

And intertwines

The classic leaf, e'en so I may

Entwine my chaplet with this Day.

XXXIII.

'Tis a poor song,

By one whose heart has ever been

Loyal and strong,

And who, like Simeon, now has seen

His hope fulfilled :-GOD SAVE THE QUEEN!