Pine, Rose and Fleur de Lis

by Susie Frances Harrison




All through London’s mighty maze
       Rolled the tide of Jubilee,
From her dark and sordid ways
       Came the children out to see
England’s Queen of fifty years.
Beat the heart and fell the tears,
       As with martial fire and blaze,
       Pomp and pageantry and praise,
              Rolled the tide of Jubilee!

All along the mighty maze

       Rolled the Pageant of our Queen.
There was not in ancient days
       Fairer Pageant ever seen.
Withered, hangs the Tudor Rose,
All the glimmering past but shows
       Faded in the glorious blaze
       Of these late Victorian days—
              Roll—the Pageant of our Queen!
       *        *        *        *        *        *        *
In the fulness of her time,
       All her children bow and meet
In Jubilee of rhyme,
       Cheer of army, shout of fleet!
She has seen the greatest die,
She has felt their souls pass by;
       She has heard a nation weep
       For an Iron Duke asleep,
For a Gordon in his prime—
Hark! from each colonial clime,
              Rings a cry through London street.

Rings, till chokes the London cry,

       Silence, guns, and silence, wheels!
Let her distant sons draw nigh,
       Till our loyal anthem peals
              Far from blue Canadian sky,
Pierces through the gray old pile,
Back along the Strand a mile
        Echoes over Dome and Tower
       Love for love and dower for dower,
       Hers—the right to love and power;
Her—to whom our anthem peals,
       Thunders, till her woman’s heart,
Womanly, though queenly, reels.

Lo! Victoria! We bring
       Love and brave fidelity.
This believe, that with us sing

       Lovers of the fleur-de-lis.
Lovers of the Island Green,
Kneel with us in earnest mien,
       This believe, though faults of youth
       Seem to dull the edge of Truth,
              Dim the Sun of Loyalty.

For should race dissension spread
       Thick and deep as falls our snow,
It should ne’er of us be said
       That we could let England—go.

No! Heart with heart and hand in hand
All Englishmen would make a stand
For Honour and the dear Old Land,
              And ever deem her own their foe.
       *        *        *        *        *        *        *
So through London’s crowded street
       Loud the younger voices rang;
Of the Polar pines and sleet,
       Of the Prairie wide they sang;
From the sands of the Soudan,
From the sultry airs that fan
Egypt, India—from the Cape—
       From the thronging states that shape
A second Britain in the West
       Came the offering of their best.
              Nay, the whole round world awoke,
              High a cloud of incense broke,
              Reverent greeting fond and free
To the Queen of fifty years;
Beat the hearts and fell the tears,
       As with martial fire and blaze,
       Pomp and pageantry and praise,
              Rolled the tide of Jubilee!



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