Pave with swift victory

The steps of Liberty,

Whom Britons own to be

Immortal Queen.

See, she comes throned on high,

On swift Eternity!

God save the Queen!

Millions on millions wait

Firm, rapid, and elate,

On her majestic state!

God save the Queen!

She is thine own pure soul

Moulding the mighty whole,

God save the Queen!

She is thine own deep love

Rained down from heaven above,

Where'er she rest or move,

God save our Queen!

Wilder her enemies

In their own dark disguise,—

God save our Queen!

All earthly things that dare

Her sacred name to bear,

Strip them, as kings are, bare;

God save the Queen!

Be her eternal throne

Built in our hearts alone,

God save the Queen!

Let the oppressor hold

Canopied seats of gold;

She sits enthroned of old

O'er our hearts Queen.

Lips touched by seraphim

Breathe out the choral hymn

'God save the Queen!'

Sweet as if angels sang,

Loud as that trumpet's clang

Wakening the world's dead gang,—

God save the Queen!

CLXXVI.

FELICIA HEMANS, 1793-1835.

THE TREASURES OF THE DEEP.

HAT hidest thou in thy treasure-caves and cells?

WHAT

Thou hollow-sounding and mysterious main !— Pale glistening pearls, and rainbow-coloured shells, Bright things which gleam unrecked of and in vain !Keep, keep thy riches, melancholy sea!

We ask not such from thee.

Yet more, the depths have more! What wealth untold, Far down, and shining through their stillness lies ! Thou hast the starry gems, the burning gold,

Won from ten thousand royal argosies.

Sweep o'er thy spoils, thou wild and wrathful main !
Earth claims not these again.

Yet more, the depths have more! Thy waves have rolled Above the cities of a world gone by;

Sand hath filled up the palaces of old,

Sea-weed o'ergrown the halls of revelry.

Dash o'er them, ocean! in thy scornful play :
Man yields them to decay.

Yet more! the billows and the depths have more!
High hearts and brave are gathered to thy breast!
They hear not now the booming waters roar,

The battle-thunders will not break their rest.
Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy grave!
Give back the true and brave!

Give back the lost and lovely! those for whom
The place was kept at board and hearth so long!
The prayer went up through midnight's breathless gloom,
And the vain yearning woke 'midst festal song!
Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers o'erthrown---
But all is not thine own.

To thee the love of woman hath gone down,
Dark flow thy tides o'er manhood's noble head,
O'er youth's bright locks, and beauty's flowery crown;
Yet must thou hear a voice-Restore the dead!
Earth shall reclaim her precious things from thee!
Restore the dead, thou sea!

S

CLXXVII.

ROBIN HOOD.

TO A FRIEND.

O! those days are gone away,

No!

JOHN KEATS, 1795-1821.

And their hours are old and grey,

And their minutes buried all

Under the down-trodden pall
Of the leaves of many years:
Many times have winter's shears,
Frozen north, and chilling east,

Sounded tempests to the feast
Of the forest's whispering fleeces,
Since men knew nor rent nor leases.

No, the bugle sounds no more,
And the twanging bow no more;
Silent is the ivory shrill

Past the heath and up the hill;
There is no mid-forest laugh,
Where lone Echo gives the half
To some wight, amazed to hear
Jesting, deep in forest drear.