 | Jubilate! |  |
THE CORONATION.
Queen of the Isles, blue ocean's choicest pearl,We hail thy day of glory!—unto thee
Admiring thousands bend the duteous knee,
And bless thee for their brightening hopes, fair girl.
Hark! 'tis the thunder of a nation's voice,
Uttering its awful love in loyal peals;
While, as thy car of triumph onward wheels,
The trumpets, and the cannon, and the chimes,
Bid every true-born Briton's heart rejoice,
Glad in the sunny light of happier times:
And, Royal Lady, if amid the whirl
Of majesty and greatness,—as of old,
A secret monitor, in duty bold,
To tell thee “thou art mortal,” humbly dares,
Forgive the noble Muse, and love her for her pray'rs.
| Jubilate! | |