APPENDICES

Born in the West: nurtured in the North: struggled in

the South: sleeps in the East

APPENDICES

I

A PANEGYRIC

TO HER MAJESTY QUEEN VICTORIA

As great Augustus, who, in ancient days,
Crown'd his good actions with ten thousand lays;
Who govern'd Rome, did all her greatness bring;
And the good people loved their gracious King;-
So have you ruled us with a gentle hand,
And scatter'd blessings on this glorious land,
So have you raised this country's name,
That worlds lie prostrate at our awful fame.
To England's will the greatest monarchs bow,
And strongest nations do our strength allow.
Do not our cannons roar, and, belching fire,
Bid kingdoms tremble at Britannia's ire.
Swords clash and glowing sparkles dance along
the sky,

And the fierce warriors yell'd the battle-cry.
So Britain triumphs; hurls down every foe;
And reigns triumphant on the world below,
Such are your mighty actions-such your mien-
That Princes tremble at Britannia's Queen.
Thy fleet sails glorious on the spreading main,

And ev'ry barque declares your prosperous reign.
Buoy'd up by your commands and law,

We keep strong kings in reverence and awe.
Such is your famous kindness-such your worth—
That thanks to thee run echoing through the earth.
Oh! may the Almighty all your acts befriend,
And heavenly blessings on your soul descend;
May sweet religious light be on you spread,
And beauteous angels linger round your head;
May Heaven on you its choicest bounties shower,
And cast bright halos on each passing hour.
When troubles come, and, with dark clouds o'er-
spread

The gushing eyelids and the aching head,
Then may thy God support thee in distress;
Smooth down misfortunes, and thy actions bless,
For many rolling years, oh! may you reign;
Thy subjects govern, and their hearts restrain.
For years may you this country's laws direct;
Sway her great sceptre, and her shores protect.
J. C. COLLINS.

Written about 1860 when he was a twelve year old schoolboy at Ellesmere.

A PICTURE

A FRAIL fair angel presence, she is kneeling
Where the last lingering beams of dying day
Through storied pane o'er aisle and fretted
ceiling,

Float in a golden glory: cold and gray.

APPENDICES

299

Looms the dark shrine beneath, but clasp'd

above

Meeting the mellow'd sunshower-praying hands
And a wild wealth of tresses: Death and Love
Brood o'er her as yon shadows fleck the light,
And both are mighty-but Grief's finger brands
No lines that mar that sweet brow's earnest graces
Though Pain burns there and Weakness wrestles
Might

On snowy neck bent backward to the skies—
On parted lips the bright beams trembling flit,
And o'er her sable vesture lustre stealeth
Light there, but O no light of earth ere lit
The azure glory of those upturn'd eyes
The saintly splendours of that wasted face
Pale as the drooping Christ before whose throes,
And streaming brows and agonies she kneeleth,
Wan with His wounds and wasted with His woe
Though that gash'd side the finish'd strife revealeth
Day, droopeth on droop'd brow and upstrained

arm

Heaven's gold still tangl'd with bleak Earth's alloy

Wild passion shadow'd on ethereal calm

And sorrow trembling into speechless joy.

June 30, 1873.

J. C. C.

ONE WORD MORE

BRIGHT as the Morn when it bursts on the billow Enrobing with glory the tremulous tides;