24 JUNE 1911, Page 17
POETRY.
THE THRONE.
Tug white cliffs are its shining face That looks across the narrow sea, The ocean bed its mighty base,
And the blue heaven its canopy.
The green grass is its velvet seat, The oak and ash its pillars twain ; Its gems that gleam from head to feet Are the wild flowers of wood and lane.
The life of high and low degree, Of countryside and busy town, This is the goodly tapestry That falls on either side adown.
The long, immortal tale of old, The glorious deeds by poets hymned, These are the ivory and gold That shine through all the years undimmed.
0 King, whom, for thy father's sake, We hail, as well as for thine own, The hour is come, arise and take Thy seat upon thine island throne !
B. PAUL NEUXIIN.
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