Who fills the royal home with light.
The Dane, King Alfred's deadly foe,
Has added to his line a glow
Of sunshine; strifes of long ago
From earth have taken flight.
III.
Eight hundred years have vanished since the day,
When William, girt with Norman knights, was crowned
With splendor at Westminster, yet the gray
Old walls will soon re-echo with the sound
Of loyal cheers in honour of a king
Who traces from him lineal descent.
Whose Norman blood is with the Saxon blent.
And Celtic, and to whom traditions cling
That fill the British heart with feelings deep;
All English kings since William have been there
Invested with the crown; the tranquil air
Has oft resounded with the trumpet's blare;
The trumpet's sound around the Abbey sweep
Once more, and rouse the ancient echoes from
their sleep.
Eight hundred years! What food for earnest thought
To every British mind this record brings!
How wondrous is it that the selfsame spot
Has seen so long the selfsame line of kings
Receive the crown! Stability must be
The leading feature of the British race;
The ravages of ages, that efface
All ancient landmarks, from their dread decree
Of ruin, have the British royal line
Exempted; it doth bind together all
The scattered British nations and recall
The past, and may no evil on it fall;
A thousand years their proud traditions twine
Around the British throne, and save it from decline.
What wondrous visions throng upon the eyes,
When gazing on Westminster's hoary walls!
The bold Crusaders from their graves arise;
Again the shout, "Long live King Richard!" falls
Upon the ear within the storied fane;
King Edward, who at Crecy raised on high
