Poem by Henry Newbolt

The King of England

(June 24th, 1902)

In that eclipse of noon when joy was hushed
  Like the bird's song beneath unnatural night,
And Terror's footfall in the darkness crushed
  The rose imperial of our delight,
Then, even then, though no man cried "He comes,"
  And no man turned to greet him passing there,
   With phantom heralds challenging renown
    And silent-throbbing drums
  I saw the King of England, hale and fair,
   Ride out with a great train through London town.

Unarmed he rode, but in his ruddy shield
  The lions bore the dint of many a lance,
And up and down his mantle's azure field
  Were strewn the lilies plucked in famous France.
Before him went with banner floating wide
  The yeoman breed that served his honour best,
   And mixed with these his knights of noble blood;
    But in the place of pride
  His admirals in billowy lines abreast
   Convoyed him close like galleons on the flood.

Full of a strength unbroken showed his face
  And his brow calm with youth's unclouded dawn,
But round his lips were lines of tenderer grace
  Such as no hand but Time's hath ever drawn.
Surely he knew his glory had no part
  In dull decay, nor unto Death must bend,
   Yet surely too of lengthening shadows dreamed
    With sunset in his heart,
  So brief his beauty now, so near the end,
   And now so old and so immortal seemed.

O King among the living, these shall hail
  Sons of thy dust that shall inherit thee:
O King of men that die, though we must fail
  Thy life is breathed from thy triumphant sea.
O man that servest men by right of birth,
  Our hearts' content thy heart shall also keep,
   Thou too with us shalt one day lay thee down
    In our dear native earth,
  Full sure the King of England, while we sleep,
   For ever rides abroad, through London town.

1. San Stefano
2. The Quarter-Gunner's Yarn
3. Waggon Hill
4. From Generation to Generation
5. Balade

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