LXVI.

I have left England twice since my visit to Rome: once in 1878, to stay at Ballenstedt, near the Harz, for a summer; once more to Stassfurt, for a prolonged sojourn. In my own country, Bath has been my favourite place, where I have been for several seasons. Brighton, too, I have often visited, having my brother there. Neither have I neglected the Isle of Wight, my favourite spot being on the unfashionable West, at Totland’s Bay.

There is, however, little left to say about England, by a native, therefore little to record; but I have found plenty to do at home.

Among other sights, while at Ballenstedt—it was in 1878—we went to the Duke of Brunswick’s castle of Blankenburg; not going over its four hundred chambers, but confining ourselves very much to the billiard-room and chapel. In that apartment the walls were decorated with engravings of race-horses, and of British sports of every kind—fox-hunting, cricket, and other games—all that are ever seen in shop-windows or elsewhere. A billiard-table occupied a corner of the room, with the rules of the game hung near it. The ducal family were Anglicized by the war, and the black dress of the troops is still worn. The chairs in the room were all backed by the arms of England and the Order of the Garter.

In the chapel there is an ivory crucifix attributedto Michael Angelo. The floor is, in one place, ostentatiously unboarded, to show the foundation to be rock.

Ballenstedt is a pleasant summer town. There is a fine avenue leading to the castle, and to the public gardens; the forest is close at hand, and a chain of trout streams and lakes descends from the neighbouring hills.

The Affenthaler valley, too, abuts on the place, leading to Falconstein, in whose castle are some of the noblest stag-antlers ever seen.

All that is written, all that comes to pass, has its concluding chapter; I am fast approaching mine.

In writing these memoirs, a love of my fellows has dominated my pen, as it does, always, in what I compose, for serious perusal. I am sometimes surprised at finding how this feeling keeps the upper hand, as, in the ordinary sense, it is not always deserved, nor always quite felt at starting: but it warms. As I began by saying, so I repeat, that, in a certain way, I am my own posterity; and, perhaps, I revive in myself the better feelings that a dead man would assuredly experience if he came suddenly to life.

I may end by saying yet a few more words about myself in concluding. As a sort of posterity I may allude even to the circumstance that my memory serves me as well as ever, as this memoir shows, and that, but for my disaster, I could give myself a certificate of health that would satisfy the most prying of life insurance companies.

I have all the buoyancy of youth! As a sort of posterity I have almost a disposition, in some things, to appreciate myself; but at this point decency forbids. I have quite recently written, 1st, a volume of “Epigrams,” from an experience quite deserving the attention of every innocent novice who looks up to mankind; 2nd, a volume of “Sonnets”; 3rd, my “Memoirs”; 4th, “Miscellaneous Essays and Verse.”

My mind holds out; it has increased in accuracy up to the present time, now that my 84th year has set in with a rush. But I find that my eyesight deteriorates, though slowly, and that, like everything else that is inevitable, I can bear it, though I should like to have my observers back, so lovely is the clear light of day!

I would altogether cease from work, but that time would hang so heavily. I shall be as idle as I can, and so end mine as Byron began his “Hours.”

In writing my memoirs the years have shrunk into days, but they fairly depict my part of Nature’s message of which she made me acommissionaire. She has told through me, in the fragmentary form of opinion, what her purpose is after being filtered through my brain, not what it is prior to the process of filtration, which leaves behind the insoluble matters, which, try as one will, are not to be got at. All things are comical in the process of production—the furnaces, the looms, the raw material, now a fibre, now a thread dipped in dye, now in mad haste rolling into a texture, now snipped with scissors intoa man’s or woman’s shape, now on their backs as they make each other a bow, or kiss hands across a street, the bricks of which a year before were in a clay field growing wheat.

The epigrams that I have ready for the press, whenever the public may be disposed for a freshjeu d’esprit, are three hundred and sixty-six in number, to correspond with leap-year.

They more or less pourtray the laughing side of life, but are not without their earnest moments, and they have references of ludicrous applicability.

It may be remarked that while that species of humour is liked and largely pervades our best authors, epigram has never been made a specialty by any one of them. There exists, therefore, a blank under this heading; and my attempt is to fill this vacancy in our literature, strange as it is that such should still be left among its crowded pages.

A poem, of whatever length, should start vividly, so as to wind up the ear and set the mind ticking. I have known poems with much latent beauty in them, set aside as rubbish, from failing to wake up the thoughts at starting. I remember a sonnet which an admirer pronounced the finest in the language (with about as much sense as George No. IV. called himself the first gentleman in Europe), and which had a clear-cut symmetry and depth, being called trashy by one who had critical power, but who did not warm his wax before taking its impression. Short poems have value to the author of them as being written on passing occasions, andthus becoming biographic. I possess a volume of this sort, called “Many Moods,” some of which have had publication.

Life is a comedy during this filtration, by means of which it receives its mysterious consciousness through a vulgar brain; death would be a comedy but that the joke is stale.

Nature seems as opinionated as she is universal. She uses millions of millions of brain-filters, all different, and all at the same time, in her thought-factory; the results some of us refilter to render them purer! The proceeding is ludicrous in the extreme at first sight, but it is amusing; and, strange to say, like the uproar of a mob, or sounds from a thousand blacksmiths’ forges, they unite into final harmoniousness.

Of my latter works above named, “The New Day” only has passed from darkness through man’s cerebral filter into the light. They have all been written during the mental cheerfulness of much bodily suffering, of which I have a pretty good twinge as I now scribble. A cracked hip never ceases to reproach me for having fallen on it, and cracked dreams pursue me through the night; but I can still smile, though I have no teeth to add grace to that labial twist which is so expressive of contentment.

All is for the best, devils on ticket-of-leave notwithstanding. Apparent evil generates and brings about good. Could we only obtain one glimpse of the invisible, which is so vast in comparison with all we dream of, how amazingly concurrent in this myview would men become. All would be judges; as on the delivery of a judgment from a full bench, all would say, “I concur.”

Evil has no place in theultimatum, as will be found when that great diplomatic document is pronounced.

I reverence Nature, though she is wholly unaware of the homage I pay her. She is president of the abeternal, adeternal commonwealth, in which every atom exercises its vote, and yields her the beneficent despotism over all, that can be never shaken.

Those who can climb, in mental sight, their pleasant little knoll, and survey the surroundings, are burdened not with reverence for their fellow-men. They are conscious of no inferiority in the presence of their betters, so slight is the difference between the great and small; and they are conscious of no superiority in the presence of their inferiors.

All are so alike in actual importance among the so mighty things around, that were all who have lived, or are yet existing, to be arranged in a line, beginning with Shakespeare and Newton, Homer and Pythagoras, Phidias and Aristotle, Bacon, John Hunter and Goethe, followed by professors and students, labourers and mendicants, and ending with those who slobber while they talk,—and were the best made to stand forward in advance of the others in a degree proportioned to their excellence, the line of human beings, viewed at no great distance, would appear as straight as a ray of light.

Wisdom is an attribute of old age; not because the faculties grow keener, but rather because the feelings are less vivid, whence there is less bias. By this change the mind becomes more patient, more just, therefore, towards those of opposite opinions; and this should, above most other things, bring toleration to bear on religion.

Men like Disraeli, who are a creed unto themselves, are strongly impressed with the importance of religion to an ignorant country. They are aware that it is unlike what is discovered to us by Nature, that it is a sort of distinguished stranger in the great system of things, of so highly impressive a presence as to be a rival force.

In truth, religion is, in every respect, a power; and in relation to Nature it isimperium in imperio, and is even more strong than Nature in the minds of men.

It is more strong in its affinity to vast numbers, men and women, than the dictates of nature; so strong is its hold that it more frequently culminates in madness than does any other passion.

This should be a warning to the highly endowed intellectual and less emotional class, not to regard religious belief as a subject of too severe analysis and correction. Let them bear in mind that when it is of a kind to restrain evil, to paralyze with fear the murderer’s hand, to overawe the adulterer, tointimidate the unjust in their dealings, to make them do unto others as they would be done by themselves, it is not only a grand factor for good in human affairs, but that it is a better teacher than Nature herself, except in the most elevated minds.

Religion has its little hypocrites, so has irreligion: which of the two gives shelter to the largest number?

Whom do the benevolent intellects desire to teach? There are two classes for them to look down upon. The credulous are the happiest of the two and the best off; then why teach them to be incredulous, when there are millions for whom even their credulity is too good?

No one who has an acute mind should suppress his view of religious affairs, provided he is not offensive, because religion, though, like music, susceptible of variations, will survive all else, as it has ever done. Its durability belongs to the fact that it is emotional, and so is spontaneous, while intellectual development necessitates labour.

Its variations have always been adapted to the character and capacity of a people, and its trustees have always proved ready to effect this adaptation; not always because it pays better, for what pays best is that which is suitable.

In England there is a great variety of emotional character, and as great a variety of creeds—some say a hundred;—so religion among us is like a centipede, so many legs has it to go on.

What suits one people does not suit all others.Leo III. established plenary indulgence and the release of souls from purgatory through the virtue of a mass. This does not suit many of the English or Scotch; indeed, should any Leo III. set up a profitable business here on the same grounds, he would be prosecuted for obtaining money under false pretences. But it suited the Italians at the time, and is held in favour by many of them still.

The religion of the Irish appears to require some re-adjustment; it does not in its present form give the Divine sanction to murder.

The most truly religious ought to be a middle class, who have a sufficiency of good things to supply their wants in moderation. One does not quite understand how the poor can work themselves up into gratitude to Heaven in the midst of want, or how the rich can work themselves down to it in the midst of superabundance.

There is one bit of advice, too, that one might give to the clergy, which is, not to waste too much time in trying to evangelize their betters, but rather to improve their own health by taking a course of moral mud baths in what is understood by the East End of London.

It would cost them less in dress.

Alas! for the West and the East—the gorgeous East changed from the sunny land into the home of the homeless, the paradise of ancient Adam yielding them only a rotten apple off the old tree of knowledge, while the West feeds on golden pippins! The clergy are endowed; they can afford Easterntravel; but less than O Jerusalem, Jerusalem! they love the slums of Shoreditch.

There is something tickling in the phrase, “the fashionable clergy.” One meets them at the receptions of a minister of State; but they do not seem wanted there, and they stand with their hands before them as if they had done preaching. The same congregation will listen to them at a distance in their box at the holy opera. But why do these good men trouble themselves with those gilt-edged Bible-bearers, who are gathered together in unconscious advertisement of the newest fashions from trans-Eastern looms, and the newest feathers from the accommodating bird of paradise, that shed them for their use?

Certainly the clergy waste their time on these delicacies of a perfected race; they are only courtiers, clergy of the bed-chamber, clergy-in-waiting. It is not a nice calling for one who is manly and cultured.

But they are not all alike. Many begin by being honest, and remain so for life.

Among the more recent events which have been of interest to me, I would mention that, in 1885, on the eve of a general election, my son Egmont engaged to deliver a lecture on Gordon in the chief cities; and very efficiently he performed his task. He concluded the work at St. James’s Hall, where I was present. I dined with the Walter Pollocks and we went together to the lecture, at which Lord Cranborne took the chair.

The audience was much moved during the recitalof those circumstances which, easy to have been avoided, led to Gordon’s death.

After the lecture, Mrs. Pollock introduced me to Lady Wentworth and then to Lord Wentworth, the grandson of Byron; also to the Baroness Burdett-Coutts, the worthy daughter of our noblest patriot, Sir Francis Burdett. This lady feelingly expressed to me her regard for Gordon, and invited me to a pleasant luncheon at her house the next day, with Mrs. Pollock and my son and daughter.

But I must not go on talking for ever; my only excuse is, as I have already hinted, I am in my fourteenth year over death-time, and so far belong, in a way, to posterity, in the name of which I have occasionally ventured to opine. With this advantage over many contemporaries, some of whom were once of my own age, and some who were younger, I have a right to consider myself as my own posterity too; indeed, being fourteen years old, as such, I may regard myself as one of the Youths of the Future.

Yet there is something wanting to me in this peculiar situation. Things do not pass for the same as they did in one’s first youth: then I looked forward, now I look back.

But even this living backwards is more curious than may appear at a first glance. It is like taking up, let us say, some seven photos of one’s self with a ten-years’ interval between each. The last is wrinkled and bald; one looks at it and wonders how a countenance could have reached so dilapidated a stage.

One takes up the one before; gazing at it, one tries to hope backwards, but is not much encouraged; it is still wrinkled and bald in its sixtieth year.

The third manifests a slight gain—the wrinkles are in part removed, as if they had been under the beneficial influence of cosmetics.

Then comes the fourth in the order of precedence, and it is not so bad; it has all the promise of youth.

We go back a little further; the previous likeness has kept its word—it restores us to what we have been missing so long—our early prime.

But here sets in a most strange mental confusion. Up to this time we have been hoping backwards; we have looked over a past life with ever-increasing hope of the yet better days; our hair has been restored to its pristine beauty, our wrinkles are as if they had never been, our eyes are lustrous, our first youth returns; we shall soon be fourteen years of age once more. Of a sudden, after hoping backwards all this way and becoming our former selves more and more, we encounter our old hopes; so we are hoping both ways—backward, to our beautiful first childhood, forward to our second, in the midst of a mental hurricane, whirling us in an instant into old age again. So ends the pleasing retrospect—our second youth as far off as ever from our first.

Photographs in my early days were not in use: so philographs must be produced in their stead. Daubs were as common as they are now, so we have a national portrait gallery. Some sort of likeness should be preserved, too, of men who have figured in physic, not so much for their own sake as for the dramatic addition they make to the age; so engaging is it to know how noted people have acted in the private play.

Among medical men,Sir Charles Clarkwas the best actor: he was every man’s equal. Gay, upright in figure, graceful, of middle stature, he seemed always ready. He acted the least joke, and so made it a good one. He told of how one day in his garden he had a fit and fell on the gravel walk, but jumped up directly and ran away for fear of his being caught by it again.

Sir Astley Cooper, when I knew him, was somewhat aged; he had returned from the fatigues of rest to practice again, much blamed by those who had succeeded him in his position. He had a grand figure; his face was flabby, his manner quiet, commanding, kindly. Every word he said to those who consulted him was treasured up as worth the guinea they put down. He had a laugh that removed any ill-founded fancy at one stroke.

Sir Benjamin Brodiewas a little man, thin of feature, with a diffused acuteness of look that ratherglowed because earnest. It demanded a good forehead, like his, and a clear eye to carry off this bright expression.

Dr. Chamberswas a large, heavy man, with thick lips, full face, prompt though bulky, seeming to carry his advice in his whole body, and taking his fees as if he were relieving his patient.

John Nussey, the court apothecary, was a man who had the confidence of dukes. He was of large figure, doughy complexion, attentive manner: listening all over. He spoke good sense, and slowly, conveying the feeling that he had much more to say if it so pleased him. Not being wastefully communicative, he was sought after for what he yet had to say.

Sir Richard Quainwas of a large countenance; his head heavy, but only because it was full. He had a quiet, not uncheerful, but almost complaining way, at times, as if the sick world expected more of his time than he had to give. He almost appeared injured towards evening, in being too much in demand. Without being deaf, his manner was a little like that of one who was: it was so gentle.

Dr. William Gairdner, a good man within himself, had a select practice among such high people as would allow a free-spoken physician to say what he liked to them. He was of the Scotch blood, with not well-shaped features, and with nose not well finished; but a face altogether good-natured, and a smile that drew your chair close up to his. To use an expression that dropped from my clever nurse,he seemed to listen with his eyes. He once said to a man who proposed to settle in London, as physician, “It will not suit you; it is not in you to do as I did the other day, to put your hand on the Lord Chancellor’s shoulder and tell him he was incapable of speaking truth.”

Dr. J. W. B. Williams, great lung-diagnoser as he was, had a busy, moving manner, which was more like that of a manager than of the head of a firm.

Mr. Robert Liston, the surgeon, was as playful in private as a gigantic kitten, and liked to hear his pretty daughter call him silly. He gave one the impression that he could do everything, and knew nothing. It was not very incorrect; his operating powers were due to a wrist with which he could have screwed off a man’s head in the days of decapitation.

Dr. Mark Lathamhad the knowing head and look peculiar to those of his name. His face was aquiline in its totality, and, like a bird, he thought on both sides of his head, turning it first on one side, then on another, instead of on the simultaneous mean. He received one very heartily; if it were about a consultation the tone was maintained, but if not, he suddenly appeared busy.

Mr. Stonewas a delightful family practitioner, with no end of good recipes for the nursery or lady’s chamber. He was a very friendly, considerate man, well up to every mark; and, being already confided in by all, he was without pretension.

Sir Thomas Watsonwas what may be called a learned physician. He had a nice, clever, collegiate face, quite gentlemanly and good looking, with a show of languor over his town practice, but very bright when summoned to the country, as if the air did him good. He was quite the head of his profession.

Dr. Richard Brightbore a name that covered his entire nature. His countenance and his mind seemed one: the acuteness, humour, brightness of his inner character lost nothing in flowing to his face, and even hands. His words were so exactly like his thoughts, that on our hearing them they became thoughts again, losing nothing in their passage; their self-conservation of force being unfailing.

Dr. J. A. Wilson(he sometimes latinized his initials to Maxilla) was a man to know, to esteem, to honour. He must have improved many a man’s memory to this day, for he was one who could never be forgotten.

Benjamin Traverswas a great thinker, and a perfect surgeon. It is difficult to describe him personally, because he was so gentlemanly, so handsome, of such noble bearing.

One may say the same ofSir William Lawrence, his aspect and his work were so classic. Besides, to describe very great men, like him, is an affront to all the rest.

Sir Henry Acland, an Oxford professor, I knew in my time. He had all the graces peculiar to hisfamily. How delightful it must be for a physician, like him, to pass through life in learned elegance and successful ease!

Then there wasDr. Baly, with his round head, and a face that would cheer any man who had still an hour to live. He was a true man, and had all the medical science of the day at his command. But, even more than this, he knew how to manage the sick, how to give them every advantage that tact could devise; in a word, how to save a life if that life was to be saved.

One more, the one whose name among anatomists is the most enduring of all:Dr. Robert Lee. He discovered a new nervous system when anatomy was held to be complete. Some men are a disgrace to society, some societies are a disgrace to men. So was it with the Royal Society in not recognizing Lee’s merit when the Continent was ringing with his name.

These are a few of those whom I knew and esteemed in my day.

Among medical men, I think Stone was the best at anecdote. He might have written another “Gold-headed Cane.” He was fond of his friends, and was hospitable. He enjoyed his profession, his consultations, and he told a story well. As a sample, Dr. ⸺ was called at night to an old lady’s bedside, but was so inebriated as to do little towards ascertaining the state of the case. He retired to the table to prescribe, but he could not; he was too far gone to commit any remedial measures to paper.He tried over and over again, when, in despair, he described his own condition—“D—drunk, by G⸺!” and left. Early on the following day he received a summons to the lady. “Doctor,” said she, “how did you know what was the matter with me? and why were you so imprudent as to commit it to paper?”

Amongst scientific men of the century we have had Faraday,facile princeps—a man who, when he was doing nothing at all, always looked to me as if he was putting something in its place.

Stokes is the only man who has vied with Faraday, and touched Newton in revealing to us the invisible spectrum.

Then there is Tyndall still, an industrious peeper behind the scenes. It was kind of Faraday to leave him his old coat; but no man could wear it—no tailor could ever make it fit another.

And there is Huxley, who is so great in science, not satisfied with the comfort of believing in nothing himself, but he must strive to share the blessing with all—the blessing of believing in nothing but himself.

Then Darwin, who has been able to climb the hill safely, and reach the summit, with Goethe, Oken, Lamarc, and Geoffrey St. Hilaire on his back.

Then there are scientific men almost too great to be mentioned by name. These tell us the sun will wear out within the period they assign. If I saw them, I should suggest that the sun could not lose energy, because its elements are indestructible. Ifthey asked me what I meant, I should reply that when oxygen and carbon produced heat, and lost it to the earth, they could produce just as much heat again, and that for ever.

“Matter and force,” I should say, “are one, and that one cannot lose or gain.”

If they made no answer, I should add, and then walk away—

“The materials of the sun cannot be diminished, as they can reach no other centre of gravity. But I admit that the sun is open to collision; not, however, within any calculable period of time.”

We should then both speak to some one else.

I now conclude.

In these my reminiscences I have made very free with my reader, and now I heartily wish him “Good day.”

My respected publishers, now that my “Memoirs” are in print, have asked me if I wish to precede them by any prefatory remarks; this I have no need of doing, since the first paragraph in the work is a sufficient explanation of why the book was written. But an event having happened which has put half the nation in mourning, and perhaps most of all our august sovereign herself, I feel impelled to utter a few words of sympathy on that sad occasion to her, the loss of a deserving Poet Laureate.

The time has come when the nation’s trust is no longer reposed in any party, but it is to be hoped that its confidence in the throne is unabated. It has taken centuries to produce a sovereign Power whose unbiased will has become moulded to the English idea of rule, and which is in perfect accord with the desires of our now vast numbers; and it is ardently to be wished that a great people may realize, under every change, that they possess one true friend who occupies the first of the three estates of the realm.

As an individual, part owner of these three estates for yet a little while, I desire to leave behind me, not the words of a laureate, but of a loving subject of the best of sovereigns and the best of women. If I, as a poet, have a wish that I would see gratified, it is to hear my “Ode,” written and published during the year of the Jubilee, sung by loyal voices to the sound of trumpets and to the beating of the drum! It may come in appropriately, as by an amateur, during the present littleinterregnum. For the perusal of those who partake of my love for, my faith in, the throne, I give it here entire, and once more to my readers say, “Farewell!”

Statecraft and kingly power for ages schooledThe nations will; the rod of genius ruled;At last, glad day, a maiden’s gentle handSufficed to guide the reins of state by sea and land.Then said a voice from heaven, “Her lengthened reignIs to eclipse the pride of kings;A virgin queen has come again,And to all loving homes her blessing brings.Soon this queen shall be a bride,And with her faithful prince her state divide,His virtues matched by hers alone,A fitting glory to her throne.So shall their perfect lives be blestTill Heaven, who knows our welfare best,Calls him the earliest to his rest.”Since hath the gracious sunFifty 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 mirthFrom dawn to utmost even!It is a day to keep on earth;This day is kept in heaven.Partake the wine and break the bread;This day shall all her poor be fed.There is joy o’er the blessings her reign has showered down,Yet lone is the star that shines in her crown.Though sickness and sorrow are common to all,In our joy let our hearts the departed recall;Let us think of the friendIn her youth so beloved;May our blessing attendOn his home far removed!His name, held so dear, to our children be told!He loved her, revered her, in days that are old.He blesses her still, her children among;For the days that are old are the days that were young.O the days of our youth, what memories they fill!We looked on her then, and we look on her still.Who now blind once beheld her, to her are not blind,They treasure their queen in their innermost mind;Who deaf once gave ear to the tones of her voice,Remember them still, in her accents rejoice.Chorus.Since hath the gracious sunFifty 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 mirthFrom 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 saddenLet mirth the heart gladden;Where our wanderings have been,Where our footsteps may stray,Remember the QueenOn her Jubilee day.Rejoice, O brave legionsIn the sun-gilded regions!There reigns she afar.Rejoice, O brave soulsAt 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 stoneTo 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 deepLet no memories sleep;Where the thunder hangs muteLet her cannon saluteEvery wave of the sea.Musicians, whose glory it is to controlOur 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 guardThe 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 songWhere 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 gayWith wild roses as welcome as blossom of May.The trees are swelled outIn the foliage of spring,The cuckoo’s aboutWith its voice on the wing.The morning has come, the churches pour forthThe 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 tiredAs 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.Grand Chorus.Victoria sits on her earth-rounded throne!From the waters that freeze into mountains of stoneTo the fire-flashing shores of the tropical zone,Her kingdoms are free.Where her ships plough the deepLet no memories sleep;Where the thunder hangs muteLet her cannon saluteEvery wave of the sea.Rejoice, O brave legionsIn the sun-gilded regions!There reigns she afar.Rejoice, hardy soulsAt the furthermost poles!Her children ye are.

Statecraft and kingly power for ages schooled

The nations will; the rod of genius ruled;

At last, glad day, a maiden’s gentle hand

Sufficed to guide the reins of state by sea and land.

Then said a voice from heaven, “Her lengthened reign

Is to eclipse the pride of kings;

A virgin queen has come again,

And to all loving homes her blessing brings.

Soon this queen shall be a bride,

And with her faithful prince her state divide,

His virtues matched by hers alone,

A fitting glory to her throne.

So shall their perfect lives be blest

Till Heaven, who knows our welfare best,

Calls him the earliest to his rest.”

Since hath the gracious sunFifty 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 mirthFrom dawn to utmost even!It is a day to keep on earth;This day is kept in heaven.Partake the wine and break the bread;This day shall all her poor be fed.

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.

Partake the wine and break the bread;

This day shall all her poor be fed.

There is joy o’er the blessings her reign has showered down,Yet lone is the star that shines in her crown.Though sickness and sorrow are common to all,In our joy let our hearts the departed recall;Let us think of the friendIn her youth so beloved;May our blessing attendOn his home far removed!His name, held so dear, to our children be told!He loved her, revered her, in days that are old.He blesses her still, her children among;For the days that are old are the days that were young.O the days of our youth, what memories they fill!We looked on her then, and we look on her still.Who now blind once beheld her, to her are not blind,They treasure their queen in their innermost mind;Who deaf once gave ear to the tones of her voice,Remember them still, in her accents rejoice.

There is joy o’er the blessings her reign has showered down,

Yet lone is the star that shines in her crown.

Though sickness and sorrow are common to all,

In our joy let our hearts the departed recall;

Let us think of the friend

In her youth so beloved;

May our blessing attend

On his home far removed!

His name, held so dear, to our children be told!

He loved her, revered her, in days that are old.

He blesses her still, her children among;

For the days that are old are the days that were young.

O the days of our youth, what memories they fill!

We looked on her then, and we look on her still.

Who now blind once beheld her, to her are not blind,

They treasure their queen in their innermost mind;

Who deaf once gave ear to the tones of her voice,

Remember them still, in her accents rejoice.

Chorus.Since hath the gracious sunFifty 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 mirthFrom dawn to utmost even!It is a day to keep on earth;This day is kept in heaven.

Chorus.

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 saddenLet mirth the heart gladden;Where our wanderings have been,Where our footsteps may stray,Remember the QueenOn her Jubilee day.Rejoice, O brave legionsIn the sun-gilded regions!There reigns she afar.Rejoice, O brave soulsAt the furthermost poles!Her children ye are.

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 stoneTo 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 deepLet no memories sleep;Where the thunder hangs muteLet her cannon saluteEvery wave of the sea.

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 controlOur 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 guardThe precincts of freedom, our love their reward;Strike chords that in battle their sufferings appease,Till their banners seem floating in victory’s breeze.

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 songWhere 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 gayWith wild roses as welcome as blossom of May.The trees are swelled outIn the foliage of spring,The cuckoo’s aboutWith its voice on the wing.

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 forthThe 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 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!

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 tiredAs 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.

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.

Grand Chorus.Victoria sits on her earth-rounded throne!From the waters that freeze into mountains of stoneTo the fire-flashing shores of the tropical zone,Her kingdoms are free.Where her ships plough the deepLet no memories sleep;Where the thunder hangs muteLet her cannon saluteEvery wave of the sea.Rejoice, O brave legionsIn the sun-gilded regions!There reigns she afar.Rejoice, hardy soulsAt the furthermost poles!Her children ye are.

Grand Chorus.