POETRY.
TO OUR MOTHER.
0 PURE and true, 0 faithful heart,
Dear mother of our myriad race,
The Father claims thee,—His thou art—
Far hence, in some serener place, To taste, in that diviner air, The love that thou hast garnered there.
0 crown of love, to live and bear Life's highest sorrows, deepest, best! The griefs that might have sown despair
Bloomed fruitful in thy patient breast; And now thou goest, robed in light, From love in faith, to love in sight.
We dare not think of glory now; We will not think of pomp and pride; Tho' listening nations veil their brow, And sorrow at Victoria's side. The silent Orient wondering hears The tale of all thy gracious years.
But men of after-time shall say, "She was so humble, being great, That Reason mocked at civil fray, And Freedom reigned in sober state; She ruled, not seemed to rule, her land, More apt to guide than to command."
And we would mourn thee, not as they Who weep irreparable loss ; But grateful for the dear delay, Beneath the shadow of the Cross, Our tearful eyes to heaven we lift, And render back the precious gift.
And men must pass, and tears be dried,
And younger hearts who have not known That tender presence, gracious-eyed, The loving secret of the throne, Shall wonder at the proud regret That crowns thee, and shall crown thee yet !
Peace, come away!. Thou sleep'st beside
The rugged immemorial sea, Where year by-year thy navies glide, And dream of ancient -victory ;- And-thou—thou farest forth to prove The last, best victory of Love.
ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON.
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