In Memoriam Reginae Dilectissimae Victoriae

(May 24, 1819 - January 22, 1901)     Sceptre and orb and crown,     High ensigns of a sovranty containing     The beauty and strength and state of half a World,     Pass from her, and she fades     Into the old, inviolable peace. I     She had been ours so long     She seemed a piece of ENGLAND: spirit and blood     And message ENGLAND'S self,     Home-coloured, ENGLAND in look and deed and dream;     Like the rich meadows and woods, the serene rivers,     And sea-charmed cliffs and beaches, that still bring     A rush of tender pride to the heart     That beats in ENGLAND'S airs to ENGLAND'S ends:     August, familiar, irremovable,     Like the good stars that shine     In the good skies that only ENGLAND knows:     So that we held it sure     GOD'S aim, GOD'S will, GOD'S way,     When Empire from her footstool, realm on realm,     Spread, even as from her notable womb     Sprang line on line of Kings;     For she was ENGLAND - ENGLAND and our Queen. II     O, she was ours!    And she had aimed     And known and done the best     And highest in time: greatly rejoiced,     Ruled greatly, greatly endured.    Love had been hers,     And widowhood, glory and grief, increase     In wisdom and power and pride,     Dominion, honour, children, reverence:     So that, in peace and war     Innumerably victorious, she lay down     To die in a world renewed,     Cleared, in her luminous umbrage beautified     For Man, and changing fast     Into so gracious an inheritance     As Man had never dared     Imagine.    Think, when she passed,     Think what a pageant of immortal acts,     Done in the unapproachable face     Of Time by the high, transcending human mind,     Shone and acclaimed     And triumphed in her advent!    Think of the ghosts,     Think of the mighty ghosts: soldiers and priests,     Artists and captains of discovery,     GOD'S chosen, His adventurers up the heights     Of thought and deed - how many of them that led     The forlorn hopes of the World! -     Her peers and servants, made the air     Of her death-chamber glorious!    Think how they thronged     About her bed, and with what pride     They took this sister-ghost     Tenderly into the night!    O, think -     And, thinking, bow the head     In sorrow, but in the reverence that makes     The strong man stronger - this true maid,     True wife, true mother, tried and found     An hundred times true steel,     This unforgettable woman was your Queen! III     Tears for her - tears!    Tears and the mighty rites     Of an everlasting and immense farewell,     ENGLAND, green heart of the world, and you,     Dear demi-ENGLANDS, far-away isles of home,     Where the old speech is native, and the old flag     Floats, and the old irresistible call,     The watch-word of so many ages of years,     Makes men in love     With toil for the race, and pain, and peril, and death!     Tears, and the dread, tremendous dirge     Of her brooding battleships, and hosts     Processional, with trailing arms; the plaint -     Measured, enormous, terrible - of her guns;     The slow, heart-breaking throb     Of bells; the trouble of drums; the blare     Of mourning trumpets; the discomforting pomp     Of silent crowds, black streets, and banners-royal     Obsequious!    Then, these high things done,     Rise, heartened of your passion!    Rise to the height     Of her so lofty life!    Kneel, if you must;     But, kneeling, win to those great altitudes     On which she sought and did     Her clear, supernal errand unperturbed!     Let the new memory     Be as the old, long love!    So, when the hour     Strikes, as it must, for valour of heart,     Virtue, and patience, and unblenching hope,     And the inflexible resolve     That, come the World in arms,     This breeder of nations, ENGLAND, keeping the seas     Hers as from GOD, shall in the sight of GOD     Stand justified of herself     Wherever her unretreating bugles blow!     Remember that she lived     That this magnificent Power might still perdure -     Your friend, your passionate servant, counsellor, Queen. IV     Be that your chief of mourning - that! -     ENGLAND, O Mother, and you,     The daughter Kingdoms born and reared     Of ENGLAND'S travail and sweet blood;     And never will you lands,     The live Earth over and round,     Wherethrough for sixty royal and radiant years     Her drum-tap made the dawns     English - Never will you     So fittingly and well have paid your debt     Of grief and gratitude to the souls     That sink in ENGLAND'S harness into the dream:     'I die for ENGLAND'S sake, and it is well':     As now to this valiant, wonderful piece of earth,     To which the assembling nations bare the head,     And bend the knee,     In absolute veneration - once your Queen.     Sceptre and orb and crown,     High ensigns of a sovranty empaling     The glory and love and praise of a whole half-world,     Fall from her, and, preceding, she departs     Into the old, indissoluble Peace. EPILOGUE     Into a land     Storm-wrought, a place of quakes, all thunder-scarred,     Helpless, degraded, desolate,     Peace, the White Angel, comes.     Her eyes are as a mother's.    Her good hands     Are comforting, and helping; and her voice     Falls on the heart, as, after Winter, Spring     Falls on the World, and there is no more pain.     And, in her influence, hope returns, and life,     And the passion of endeavour: so that, soon,     The idle ports are insolent with keels;     The stithies roar, and the mills thrum     With energy and achievement; weald and wold     Exult; the cottage-garden teems     With innocent hues and odours; boy and girl     Mate prosperously; there are sweet women to kiss;     There are good women to breed.    In a golden fog,     A large, full-stomached faith in kindliness     All over the world, the nation, in a dream     Of money and love and sport, hangs at the paps     Of well-being, and so     Goes fattening, mellowing, dozing, rotting down     Into a rich deliquium of decay.     Then, if the Gods be good,     Then, if the Gods be other than mischievous,     Down from their footstools, down     With a million-throated shouting, swoops and storms     War, the Red Angel, the Awakener,     The Shaker of Souls and Thrones; and at her heel     Trail grief, and ruin, and shame!     The woman weeps her man, the mother her son,     The tenderling its father.    In wild hours,     A people, haggard with defeat,     Asks if there be a God; yet sets its teeth,     Faces calamity, and goes into the fire     Another than it was.    And in wild hours     A people, roaring ripe     With victory, rises, menaces, stands renewed,     Sheds its old piddling aims,     Approves its virtue, puts behind itself     The comfortable dream, and goes,     Armoured and militant,     New-pithed, new-souled, new-visioned, up the steeps     To those great altitudes, whereat the weak     Live not.    But only the strong     Have leave to strive, and suffer, and achieve.     WORTHING, 1901.