by John Vance Cheney
Answer the cabin and the hunting-shed
The voice of mourning in the royal halls;
The shadow crawls upon the crownèd head,
From out her palsied hand the sceptre falls.
So. Wrap her in the banner from her walls,
And in her regal peace be comforted.
Hark! up and down the earth gray honor calls,
And the long glories gather round her bed.
Through all the years her people have been fed,
Yea, the wild ox has fatted in her stalls;
To islands of the sea her lines have spread,
Proud sons of song have sung her madrigals.
Come, while the growing pageants past her sweep,
Wrap round the banner-fold, and let her sleep.
Last updated January 14, 2019