I. Fifty times the rose has flowerd and faded, Fifty times the golden harvest fallen, Since our Queen assumed the globe, the sceptre. II. She beloved for a kindliness Rare in fable or history, Queen, and Empress of India, Crownd so long with a diadem Never worn by a worthier, Now with prosperous auguries Comes at last to the bounteous Crowning year of her Jubilee. III. Nothing of the lawless, of the despot, Nothing of the vulgar, or vainglorious, All is gracious, gentle, great and queenly. IV. You then joyfully, all of you, Set the mountain aflame to-night, Shoot your stars to the firmament, Deck your houses, illuminate All your towns for a festival, And in each let a multitude Loyal, each, to the heart of it, One full voice of allegiance, Hail the fair Ceremonial Of this year of her Jubilee. V. Queen, as true to womanhood as Queenhood, Glorying in the glories of her people, Sorrowing with the sorrows of the lowest! VI. You, that wanton in affluence, Spare not now to be bountiful, Call your poor to regale with you, All the lowly, the destitute, Make their neighborhood healthfuller, Give your gold to the hospital, Let the weary be comforted, Let the needy be banqueted, Let the maimd in his heart rejoice At this glad Ceremonial, And this year of her Jubilee. VII. Henrys fifty years are all in shadow, Gray with distance Edwards fifty summers, Even her Grandsires fifty half forgotten. VIII. You, the Patriot Architect, You that shape for eternity, Raise a stately memorial, Make it regally gorgeous, Some Imperial Institute, Rich in symbol, in ornament, Which may speak to the centuries, All the centuries after us, Of this great Ceremonial, And this year of her Jubilee. IX. Fifty years of ever-broadening Commerce! Fifty years of ever-brightening Science! Fifty years of ever-widening Empire! X. You, the Mighty, the Fortunate, You, the Lord-territorial, You, the Lord-manufacturer, You, the hardy, laborious, Patient children of Albion, You, Canadian, Indian, Australasian, African, All your hearts be in harmony, All your voices in unison. Singing, Hail to the glorious Golden year of her Jubilee! XI. Are there thunders moaning in the distance? Are there spectres moving in the darkness? Trust the Hand of Light will lead her people, Till the thunders pass, the spectres vanish, And the Light is Victor, and the darkness Dawns into the Jubilee of the Ages.
Return to the Alfred Lord Tennyson Home Page, or . . . Read the next poem; Opening Of The Indian And Colonial Exhibition By The Queen