MAY-DAY ODE.

But yesterday a naked sod

The dandies sneered from Rotten Row,

And cantered o'er it to and fro:

And see‘ tis done!

As though‘ twere by a wizard's rod

A blazing arch of lucid glass

Leaps like a fountain from the grass

To meet the sun!

A quiet green but few days since,

With cattle browsing in the shade:

And here are lines of bright arcade

In order raised!

A palace as for fairy Prince,

A rare pavilion, such as man

Saw never since mankind began,

And built and glazed!

A peaceful place it was but now,

And lo! within its shining streets

A multitude of nations meets;

A countless throng

I see beneath the crystal bow,

And Gaul and German, Russ and Turk,

Each with his native handiwork

And busy tongue.

I felt a thrill of love and awe

To mark the different garb of each,

The changing tongue, the various speech

Together blent:

A thrill, methinks, like His who saw

“All people dwelling upon earth

Praising our God with solemn mirth

And one consent.”

High Sovereign, in your Royal state,

Captains, and chiefs, and councillors,

Before the lofty palace doors

Are open set,—

Hush ere you pass the shining gate:

Hush! ere the heaving curtain draws,

And let the Royal pageant pause

A moment yet.

People and prince a silence keep!

Bow coronet and kingly crown.

Helmet and plume, bow lowly down,

The while the priest,

Before the splendid portal step,

( While still the wondrous banquet stays,)

From Heaven supreme a blessing prays

Upon the feast.

Then onwards let the triumph march;

Then let the loud artillery roll,

And trumpets ring, and joy-bells toll,

And pass the gate.

Pass underneath the shining arch,

‘ Neath which the leafy elms are green;

Ascend unto your throne, O Queen!

And take your state.

Behold her in her Royal place;

A gentle lady; and the hand

That sways the sceptre of this land,

How frail and weak!

Soft is the voice, and fair the face:

She breathes amen to prayer and hymn;

No wonder that her eyes are dim,

And pale her cheek.

This moment round her empire's shores

The winds of Austral winter sweep,

And thousands lie in midnight sleep

At rest to-day.

Oh! awful is that crown of yours,

Queen of innumerable realms

Sitting beneath the budding elms

Of English May!

A wondrous scepter‘ tis to bear:

Strange mystery of God which set

Upon her brow yon coronet,—

The foremost crown

Of all the world, on one so fair!

That chose her to it from her birth,

And bade the sons of all the earth

To her bow down.

The representatives of man

Here from the far Antipodes,

And from the subject Indian seas,

In Congress meet;

From Afric and from Hindustan,

From Western continent and isle,

The envoys of her empire pile

Gifts at her feet;

Our brethren cross the Atlantic tides,

Loading the gallant decks which once

Roared a defiance to our guns,

With peaceful store;

Symbol of peace, their vessel rides!

O'er English waves float Star and Stripe,

And firm their friendly anchors gripe

The father shore!

From Rhine and Danube, Rhone and Seine,

As rivers from their sources gush,

The swelling floods of nations rush,

And seaward pour:

From coast to coast in friendly chain,

With countless ships we bridge the straits,

And angry ocean separates

Europe no more.

From Mississippi and from Nile —

From Baltic, Ganges, Bosphorous,

In England's ark assembled thus

Are friend and guest.

Look down the mighty sunlit aisle,

And see the sumptuous banquet set,

The brotherhood of nations met.

Around the feast!

Along the dazzling colonnade,

Far as the straining eye can gaze,

Gleam cross and fountain, bell and vase,

In vistas bright;

And statues fair of nymph and maid,

And steeds and pards and Amazons,

Writhing and grappling in the bronze,

In endless fight.

To deck the glorious roof and dome,

To make the Queen a canopy,

The peaceful hosts of industry

Their standards bear.

Yon are the works of Brahmin loom;

On such a web of Persian thread

The desert Arab bows his head

And cries his prayer.

Look yonder where the engines toil:

These England's arms of conquest are,

The trophies of her bloodless war:

Brave weapons these.

Victorians over wave and soil,

With these she sails, she weaves, she tills,

Pierces the everlasting hills

And spans the seas.

The engine roars upon its race,

The shuttle whirs the woof,

The people hum from floor to roof,

With Babel tongue.

The fountain in the basin plays,

The chanting organ echoes clear,

An awful chorus‘ tis to hear,

A wondrous song!

Swell, organ, swell your trumpet blast,

March, Queen and Royal pageant, march

By splendid aisle and springing arch

Of this fair Hall:

And see! above the fabric vast,

God's boundless Heaven is bending blue,

God's peaceful sunlight's beaming through,

And shines o'er all.