Poems; original and translated :: :: University of Virginia Library

Was it thunder spoke, or the cannon woke
That peal that shakes the ground?
Again and yet again! I know the sound!
Tis the cannon's voice that says Rejoice!
England an heir hath found!

The glorious birth it announces to Earth:
A Prince, a Prince is born! The welcome word
From tongue to tongue hath pass'd along,
And the City's heart is stirr'd!

The tread far and near of thousands I hear;
From street to street in throngs they meet;
Men are there with brows of care,
Children by the mother led;
Sickness hath forsook her bed,
Poverty hath ceased to toil,
Hush'd is angry strife and broil;
All one thought inspires:
Quick and anxious hurrying by,
They ask each other eagerly
If 'tis a dream that mocks their fond desires.
It is no dream! That chime of bells
With all its power from the lofty tower
The tale of gladness tells:
And lo where on high, saluting the sky,
Our country's loyal banner is unfurl'd:
Arise, arise, rejoice, thou City of the world!

Night is past, and morn at last
To crown our hopes is come;
Beams the light of heavenly grace
On yonder kingly dome.

There they lie, a beauteous pair,
Princely Child and Mother fair,
The hopes of all our race:
And he is near, to England dear,
Who sees reflected from an infant face
Himself, the Father to a line of kings.
Victoria smiles upon her boy,
Victoria knows the joy,
That only from a parent's bosom springs;
Or haply down the royal cheek
A pearly tear-drop steals,
Telling what no words can speak,
All the wife, the parent feels.
Yes, she shall melt with tender love opprest;
She, in whose heart all England treasur'd lies,
And mightiest empire's destinies,
Now in her hour of weakness shall be blest:
She for her babe shall breathe the silent prayer,
And for a while forget a kingdom's care.

In many a British hall
There shall be mirth and festival,
And none so poor but in that festive glee
Shall have their share, while sport and game
And pageantries proclaim
A nation's jubilee.
Cities a blaze of splendour shall raise,
Dazzling the moon, and turning night to day,

And with revels detain the wondering swain,
Till morning-blush hath summon'd him away.
In Cambrian vales the minstrel wild
Llewellyn's heir shall sing,
Llewellyn's heir and England's child
The mountain echoes ring.
Nor Scotia's voice, nor Erin shall be dumb;
Her song of triumph o'er the wave shall come:
Some hand of fire shall seize the lyre,
And to a sacred rapture wake the string.

Rejoice, ye Britons! But with holier thought
Your mirth be temper'd: bend the knee
To Him who for our Queen hath wrought
From pangs of death delivery:
To Him whose mercies never end
Let this our lowly orison ascend.

O Thou, from whom all blessings flow,
To prince and peasant, high and low,
Look, we beseech, with aspect mild
Upon the Mother and the Child!
The Mother to her strength restore,
Upon the Child thy mercies pour!
Grant that he grow
To manhood's prime and kingly majesty,
And learn his people and himself to know:

Make him to be
True to our faith, our laws, and liberty,
A light to us, a minister to Thee!
Oh, while I pray on this auspicious day,
Do Thou my soul inspire!
Now blessed be the morn
On which this child was born!
Blest be his princely Sire!
Long life to her that England's sceptre sways;
But still be thine, O Lord, the glory and the praise!