Since hath the gracious sun
Fifty times his year begun,
And she remains, our hope and hourly care,
Her children round her, many a happy pair!
England, be this a day of mirth
From dawn to utmost even!
It is a day to keep on earth;
This day is kept in heaven.
Rejoice, the heart from labour free;
It is a holy Jubilee!
Where grief does not sadden
Let mirth the heart gladden;
Where our wanderings have been,
Where our footsteps may stray,
Remember the Queen
On her Jubilee day.
Rejoice, O brave legions
In the sun-gilded regions!
There reigns she afar.
Rejoice, O brave souls
At the furthermost poles!
Her children ye are.
May no grief her heart sadden,
May this day her heart gladden;
Victoria sits on her earth-rounded throne!
From the waters that freeze into mountains of stone
To the fire-flashing shores of the tropical zone,
When a soldier has fallen a tear can she shed,
With the widow she knows how to mourn for the dead;
She makes all the cares of her kingdom her own.
Though the touch of the monarch no longer heals,
As balm to the heart her sympathy steals.
’Tis her own Jubilee!
Where her ships plough the deep
Let no memories sleep;
Where the thunder hangs mute
Let her cannon salute
Every wave of the sea.
Musicians, whose glory it is to control
Our hearts, and to sunder our cares from the soul,
Strike deep where hope’s solace we seek for in vain;
Strike deep, though of ills hard to bear we complain;
Strike deep to the hearts of the soldiers who guard
The precincts of freedom, our love their reward;
Strike chords that in battle their sufferings appease,
Till their banners seem floating in victory’s breeze.
It is summer, the June of the Jubilee year,
The month when the first-fruits of spring-time appear,
The month when the lark thrills the sky with a song
Where the blue-bells hang silent the moorlands along.
It is June, glorious June, the month of the Queen!
The cornfields are paling, the pastures are green,
The ferns are uncurling, the hedgerows are gay
With wild roses as welcome as blossom of May.
The trees are swelled out
In the foliage of spring,
The cuckoo’s about
With its voice on the wing.
The morning has come, the churches pour forth
The battling of bells from the south to the north;
The peals from the belfries are merrily rung,
All hearts are rejoicing, all nature is young.
The joys of the earth while they last are our own;
Let us give them to her, to her hearth, to her throne.
Victoria, loved Queen! We proclaim thee again;
May the trust we repose ever sweeten thy reign!
Loud and deep are the cheers ’neath the old village oak;
The health, the long life of the Queen they invoke.
A fife at the lips and a drum all their band,
The villagers gladden the length of the land:
The bunting from gable to gable is swung,
The casements with flags and fond mottoes are hung.
In the love-threaded dance their steps are not tired
As they weave them to tunes by affection inspired.
The children are shouting and romping in throngs,
Like anthems seem holy their merriest songs;
The wayfarer pauses in crossing the stile,
And lists in a dream to their voices awhile:
The voices of children a stranger may win,
Through them are our hearts with the angels akin.
’Twas so on the day she ascended the throne;
We live o’er again the days that are gone.
The days of our youth—what memories they fill!
We looked on her then, and we look on her still.