THE ACCESSION.
“Our Sovereign Lady Queen Victoria as on this day
set over us by thy grace and providence, to be our
Queen.”—Prayer Book.
This world is like that Creature vast
The royal dreamer had to face;
Whose head from burnish'd gold was cast,
But when you reach'd the talon'd base
Vile metal there commenced its lower sway,
And slowly crumbled into worthless clay.
And who like monarchs this can know,
At whose accession all things wear
The richness of a regal glow,
And triumphs of that festive glare
A coronation and a crown present,
With all the pomps of shouting Welcome blent?
The spangles on the mourning-dress
Worn for some princely head, which lies
Cold in sepulchral nothingness,
Are scarce removed from courtly eyes,—
Ere happy mourners to another king
Their venal chant of vaunted homage sing.
Alas! for Kings, if state and throne,
If splendour and monarchal pride
Were all that royal minds could own,
Or crowns and fawning courts provide:
A fate like this the soul would overpower,
And harrow princes in their calmest hour.
The kingdom of the mind exceeds
Whatever realms and rank impart,
And oft a monarch inly bleeds
To find himself a friendless Heart,—
In crowded loneliness to speak and smile,
And be unechoed in his thoughts the while.
And hollow dreams must oft surround
The pageantries of royal state;
Deceits and dangers there abound
While secret anguish gnaws the great:
Peasants can weep, but Princes dare not show
The aching centre of their voiceless woe!
Flatter'd by many, loved by few,
Before them group and gather all
Who seek to veil each covert-view,
Their serpent tongues the “country” call;
Too oft fair loyalty is glozing speech
Gilding the cause cold Self desires to reach.
Hence, Thou for whom a realm is kept
O'er which the sunbeams ne'er go down,
Wider than that the eagles swept,
When Rome became a huge renown,—
The Church anoints thee with her unction now,
And drops the crown upon Thy jewell'd brow.
While thrones descend, and empires shake
'Mid loud convulsion fierce and far,
And strife and civil discord make
Pale Europe rock with coming war,
God of our glories! 'tis in Thee we own
The deep foundations of a christian throne.
Lift we our heart-breathed hymn on high
To That incarnate King of kings!
Under Whose providential eye
A coronation-anthem sings
Each patriot soul, who Church and Crown can see
Reposing grandly, when they rest on Thee.
The life-blood of a loyal heart
Flows bravely through our British veins;
Nor shall this hero-truth depart
From cot and palace, shore and plains,—
That Kings on earth a regal shadow throw
Of Him, to Whom all worlds subjection owe.
